


Just to Breathe In

by AbigailKinney4life



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bombs, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Corruption, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infanticide, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Terrorism, Torture, Violence, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 101,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27436465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: Agent Geralt Rivia, a veteran of MI6's anti-terrorism task force, is left grieving and disgraced after a failed undercover mission tears his life apart. He's tasked with protecting the genius but troubled Jaskier from a violent, drug-dealing syndicate that are hunting him down.Both damaged and vulnerable, Geralt and Jaskier have no choice but to band together to survive the dangerous world they both inhabit while struggling to overcome their own demons.As opposite as two people can be, Geralt and Jaskier soon begin to realise that they're not as different as they once thought, and while oceans of society separate them, they both share an understanding of how hard it can be sometimes just to breathe in. Modern MI6 AU.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 214
Kudos: 228





	1. of predators and prey

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic has some very heavy themes as it revolves around a fictional Anti-Terrorism unit in MI6 and the characters are involved in terrorism plots/events. All referenced government members/events/terrorism events/plots are completely fictional.  
> This fic is also violent, includes the threat of death, drug abuse, mental health issues and allusions to undiagnosed disorders including Asperger's and OCD and PTSD.  
> Basically this fic is a big angst-sandwich so if any of this would bother you, please do not read <3
> 
> Jaskier in this fic is heavily inspired by Joey Batey's phenomenal portrayal of Bobby Hayes in Stan Lee's Lucky Man.
> 
> The song that best describes this fic is Cut by Plumb, I have an entire playlist that I'll release as we get further in, but Cut is where the fic's title comes from.
> 
>  _‘I do not want to be afraid,  
>  I do not want to die inside just to breathe in.  
> I’m tired of feeling so numb,  
> Relief exists I find it when I am cut.’_ – Cut, Plumb.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr if you want to come yell at me 🥰 www.consultingskeletondetective.tumblr.com

Chapter One

_of predators and prey_

Geralt stared at the simple headstone on the ground and focused on the words freshly engraved upon it because he knew there was nothing underneath it. They’d never recovered her body. A tremor of pain and panic shot through him like a lightning bolt at the intrusive thought but his gloved hand tightening around the plastic handle of his black umbrella was the only outward reaction he gave.

The rain pattered softly around their small gathering. There were no friends or family, they’d already been and gone, there were only colleagues stood silent and unassuming because that was the way it had to be.

The eight people in attendance were all members of a special Anti-Terrorism Taskforce in MI6’s international terrorism unit. It was Renfri’s real name on her gravestone, and if anyone knew this impromptu albeit brief memorial was taking place, then their work and maybe even their lives would be in danger.

Agent Vesemir Morhen was the head of the taskforce. He was a man in his late fifties and impeccably dressed with his grey hair neatly combed back and his face hardened from years of seeing the very worst of humanity. He swapped his black umbrella from one hand to the other before he knelt beside her gravestone, the knee of his grey suit peeking out from under his wool coat and soaking in the damp soil. He tucked a single white flower between the lavish bouquets and stuffed animals and photographs left by Renfri’s family – so small and subtle no one would notice it was there.

The handle of Geralt’s umbrella creaked dangerously beneath his grip.

Renfri had been his partner, his protegee, his _responsibility_ , and he wasn’t even allowed to put flowers on her damned grave.

In other ways though, it felt like a mercy, because doing so would be an insult to her. He felt uncomfortable enough as it was, surrounded by his colleagues, like he was returning to the scene of a crime.

Eskel and Lambert were both periodically glancing over to him and Geralt tried pointedly to ignore them. They’d been partners for over ten years, and Geralt had known them both just as long, and he knew they were only trying to be supportive, but he just wanted space and quiet and preferably something to punch.

That was when he pinpointed the alien uncomfortableness in his gut. Stood with the taskforce but bereft of his own partner – he felt alone.

Vesemir pushed himself back up and faced them. His knee was dark with mud.

“We should leave.” He said solemnly.

The task force filtered out evenly and walked through the cemetery to their unregistered vehicles, never lingering on an order given by Vesemir. Geralt turned, too.

“Wait, Geralt.”

He turned back just as swiftly.

Vesemir was wearing that look he often wore when he was about to say something meaningful, _teachable_ , and it was a look Geralt knew all too well.

Geralt had been abandoned in a children’s home by his mother when he was six years old mere months before she’d died and left him to fend for himself.

He’d been a normal child in many ways, not counting his bone-white hair. He’d been told it had been genetic, but he’d never met any of his blood-relatives so even of that he couldn’t be sure. He’d been full of rage and anger and unspent grief growing up and he’d channelled it into making himself fit and joining his school’s boxing team. He quickly worked his way up through regional and national tournaments until he was semi-professional level and when he was eighteen years old, he was receiving offers and contracts from up and down the country to begin his professional boxing career.

It was around that time that his coach had sat him down and offered him two choices and shown him the forked crossroads that would shape his life. He could either become an athlete, or he could come and work for him at MI6 and use his gifts to make a real difference in the world.

He’d promised to support Geralt in whatever choice he made but Geralt could see in his eyes that he wanted him to pick the latter.

It was exactly the same look he was giving him today.

Geralt had chosen rather easily and here he stood today, thirty-six years of age and every bit as muscular and intimidating as he’d been as a teenager, maybe even more so.

Geralt had a calm ferociousness to him. He was all rippling muscle and bottled strength under a very tight lid. He wore dark suits and wore his bright hair long, often tying it back with a simple band. He was Agent Geralt Rivia, a veteran of the anti-terrorism task force specialising in undercover work which served him well to keep himself as emotionally unavailable as possible, allowing him to put the needs of national security before his own and to save the country over and over so he didn’t have to face saving himself. He had no family but for the task force and Renfri had been his partner for five years. She was young, she was vicious, she was wasted potential and it was all his fault.

“This wasn’t your fault.” Vesemir said firmly, the sympathy in his voice practically non-existent. Vesemir was the very embodiment of tough love and Geralt was his receptacle for it.

Geralt wanted to accept the old man’s words as easily as an order but he couldn’t because for the first time Vesemir was wrong. He dared not disagree, instead his eyes fell to the ground and he said nothing.

The splatter of the rain on their umbrellas became louder and Vesemir’s eyes flicked up instinctively.

“The rain’s getting worse, we should go.”

They fell into step with each other, their polished oxford’s squelching in the mud of the graveyard. Geralt’s black _Alfa Romeo 8C_ came into view, the rain gushing off of its sleek black frame like a waterfall.

“So, what happens now?” Geralt asked stiffly.

“In what regard?”

“Am I being transferred?” He asked. “Or worse.” He didn’t want to ask such a question, but he knew he had to. If they lived in a world where this had no repercussions, then they were the bad guys.

“Neither.” Vesemir said.

Geralt stopped walking.

Vesemir carried on a few more paces before he realised he was alone and turned back to his agent.

A wall of rain fell between them.

“This cannot go away, Vesemir.”

“Believe you me, lad, it’s not.” Vesemir admitted with something close to a _laugh_ in his words, albeit a miserable one. “It’s a fucking mess. But my superiors and myself included felt like getting rid of one of our best agents wasn’t exactly the best way to go about cleaning it up.”

“But-“

“If we removed agents every time a mission went wrong, we’d have no staff.” Vesemir reminded him sagely with a raised eyebrow. “You’re to resume active duty with the exception that you remain grounded in London for an indefinite period of time.”

Geralt’s mouth pressed into a hard line. So he _was_ being punished, then?

Geralt and Renfri had spent the last eighteenth months in a deep cover operation in Khartoum, Sudan’s capital city, to infiltrate a group of British arms dealers who had managed to steadily smuggle ballistics from Britain into Sudan and sell to the highest bidders across the world. Stopping them was two-fold. Firstly, the presence of the arms dealers had spread like wildfire in the city, they were kings, they were _Gods_ and the streets had turned into a hotbed of violent fear and unrest, which was a catalyst for civil war maybe not just in the city, but in the country, too. The second reason was that no British citizen could get weaponry so consistently across the border without detection. They had to have been receiving aid from somewhere, and MI6’s limited intelligence had led them to the conclusion that that group or individual had access to very sensitive material and the likelihood of them working in the British government themselves was remarkably high. Vesemir had even gone as far as to have the Foreign Office formally investigated but with little evidence and their accusations based on conjecture, the investigation had fallen apart and they were no closer to finding their mole.

The arms dealers themselves were led by British stockbroker John Devenere and his brother, the ex-marine, Colin, along with a motley crew of friends and associates and Geralt and Renfri had been sent to the epicentre to try and recover as much information from the crew as they could.

Geralt had acted as bodyguard to John Devenere while Renfri cosied up to his brother, Colin. It was hard for Geralt to watch his partner sat in the lap of a murderer, his large hands dwarfing her comparatively small body. But it wasn’t just the fact that those hands could kill her, it was because they could do _other_ things as well. Every time he saw Colin’s bloody-knuckled hand grabbing her ass or his lips ghosting along her temple his jaw set and whoever stepped up to John Devenere that night suffered very harshly under his fists.

Their lives were one of violence, booze, women and all-round hard partying and Geralt didn’t even feel a disturbance in the wind one night at their villa complex when a rather raucous party was going on. He’d been plied with drinks he’d declined and approached by whores trying to take his trousers off and when John Devenere had invited him onto his quiet bedroom balcony for a drink, Geralt had actually been _relieved._

The cold air was comforting on Geralt’s skin as he’d settled on a comfy patio chair, overlooking the sandy, violent-torn streets of occupied Khartoum.

John Devenere had pressed a glass of expensive scotch into his hand and Geralt had taken a small, pleasurable sip as John teased him with a simple white envelope, announcing it as a ‘reward’ for his loyal service.

Geralt drank his drink steadily as John got more and more drunk and, as usual, more and more emotional. It was conversations like this where Geralt’s ears pricked up, when John was just relaxed enough that he might say something incriminating.

When John started moaning about his wife cheating on him back in Britain, Geralt’s eyes had fluttered tiredly and he’d been emotionally unguarded as the conversation began to deteriorate.

“So, Mikel,” John stressed his code name, “what do you do when you find out your loyal friend has been lying to you? When someone you’ve trusted with your life turns out to be undercover and trying to bring you down?”

Geralt hadn’t blinked as placed his glass down with a muted thud and turned to John Devenere.

John inclined his head towards the envelope. “ _Open it_.”

Geralt’s brain was processing at a million miles a second as he slipped the envelope open and tipped the weight of the stack of polaroid’s out onto the palm of his hand. Each and every photograph was of Renfri, she was naked and her body was barely recognisable, her face a mesh of blood and torn flesh. Geralt knew immediately who had done this: the sick, sadistic, psychotic _fuck_ John called a brother. Colin had killed her.

“Where is she?” He growled dangerously as something deep inside him _broke_.

“Oh, don’t worry,” John had replied, “you’ll be with her soon.”

It had been a long, rough fight as John’s heavies pinned him to a table and John had brought a saw to the small of his back, cleaving his flesh in two as he tried to carve his legs from the rest of him. Geralt had been tortured and injured many times but he’d never known agony like the teeth of a brittle saw turning his back and muscle and sinew into red paste.

As if by a miracle, his back up team had descended and extracted him from the scene and he’d been flown back to Britain where he’d spent the next two months lying in a hospital bed undertaking surgery after surgery to graft his back back together. A further four months of physiotherapy and sick leave had left him as he was today, with an aggressive scar and an equally aggressive need to finish what he’d started. He was as fighting fit as he’d been before the Sudan mission, his doctors had even gone as far as to call his recovery miraculous, but Geralt knew it was no miracle, it was his need to find John Devenere and snap his neck that had kept him going.

They’d been blown, it was as simple as that. How, or by who, Geralt didn’t know and he still didn’t know. All he did know was that the Devenere’s had gotten away and had fallen off the radar for the last six months while he’d been propped up in a hospital bed, replaying the last moment he’d seen her in his mind over and over again, with her arms draped around Colin Devenere’s shoulders and acting like they barely knew each other.

Even now, the thought still plagued him every time he closed his eyes and he often spent his nights sat up with a drink in one hand, staring blankly at the wall until his alarm went off.

…

Geralt stared at the ceiling as his phone beeped next to him. He reached across the bed one handed and tapped the screen, silencing the screech in the silent morning while his other hand rubbed his eyes and attempted to dislodge the sleepiness from them.

He got out of bed and pulled a pair of night trousers low on his hips before padding barefoot to the kitchen, the soles of his feet cold from his bare white floors. Geralt watched the coffee machine whir and the trickle of brown liquid dribble into his black mug. He gathered his ivory locks in his hands and pulled them from his eyes, not bothering to tie his hair back, before the coffee machine beeped and he took his drink to the sofa and sat down. He placed his coffee on the glass table in front, beside his phone and his watch and before he could even settle back against the comfortable leather, the aforementioned phone began to vibrate and the noise reverberated on the glass.

Geralt frowned and answered immediately. The only time he’d be contacted on this number out of hours was if it was an emergency.

“Talk to me.” He said gruffly.

“ _Agent Rivia_ ,” came an unfamiliar operator’s voice. “ _We’ve had a tip off of a potential bomb on a tube train grounded at Victoria station. The Met. Have dispatched SCO19 but the inspector is requesting an agent to attend._ ”

Geralt would have rolled his eyes if he’d had the energy. Every time British police heard the word ‘bomb’ they demanded MI6 get involved to pass the buck if anything went wrong but most of the time it was someone playing a prank that resulted in wasted time and money. Geralt knew what this was about, this was about him being grounded and people trying to give him stuff to do to feel useful. The fury and resentment made him grind his teeth together.

“On my way.” He almost snarled before attempting to hang up.

“ _Wait_ ,” Geralt put the phone back to his ear. “ _Task force police states you can’t go alone, Agent. You’ll need to take a partner, as for availability_ …”

Geralt didn’t bother replying. He hung up, dressed swiftly in a black suit, downed his coffee like a lukewarm shot and tied his hair back as he jogged to the _Alfa_.

_Victoria_ station was a flurry of activity by time Geralt reached it. Uniformed officers had erected a barrier by the entrance and were in a fight with both the public and the press as they tried to get inside and find out what was going on.

An officer met Geralt and led him quietly through a side entrance and within moments, he was out on the platform. He jogged down the stairs to the platform as his phone vibrated against his chest.

“Yeah?” He asked, pressing his phone to his ear.

“ _Geralt_!” Vesemir’s stern voice barked out of the receiver. “ _What the hell are you doing taking off without a partner_?”

“I’m at the scene, I can’t talk. 99% it’s a dud but I’ll keep you updated.”

He hung up before Vesemir had a chance to argue with him as he stepped out onto the platform. The train was up ahead. The power was off but still Geralt could see cowering passengers at the windows. _SCO19_ were lined up a few metres in front of the train, mounted rifles trained on the windows and deathly silent. Officers stood around them quietly conversing and Geralt made a beeline for the only member wearing a suit.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

The detective inspector looked him up and down without moving his walkie talkie from his mouth.

“And you are?”

“Geralt Rivia, MI6.” Was all Geralt supplied, slipping his hands into his pockets and staring at the D.I.

“I thought you lot were pack animals?”

Geralt set his jaw.

“It’s 6.30am and its my day off and you’ve dragged me down here to witness the unravelling of a prank phone call that’s brought _Victoria_ to a standstill. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

The detective inspector pursed his lips and looked like he would very much like to set one of _SCO19_ on Geralt instead before he conceded.

“We received a phone call from a witness on the train that there’s a teenager inside acting suspiciously, clutching a rucksack and looking nervous.”

“Shit the bed.”

“Looking _very_ nervous.”

Geralt sighed.

“He’s probably just bought a fucking vibrator or something and doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

The detective inspector gave Geralt a harsh look.

“Well, about five minutes before the train reached the station, he locked himself in the bathroom and refused to come out. When he was quizzed by the staff he screamed at them that he had a bomb and to leave him alone or he was going to kill everyone on board.” He raised an eyebrow at Geralt.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed and he turned to the train, silent and dark, and the passengers peeping out, terrified, from within.

“When was it grounded?” He asked gruffly.

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“No sign of the kid?”

“No.”

“Any more threats or contact made?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been on or off the train since it grounded?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Geralt ran a hand down his front. To anyone else it looked like he was smoothing his suit jacket but really he was checking the reassuring weight in his shoulder holster.

“Let me inside, I’m going to talk to him.”

Geralt was already striding off towards the train when the detective inspective grabbed his arm.

“You can’t do that!”

Geralt froze and inclined his head just so to the hand on him before his steely gaze moved to the D.I and within moments the hand was taken away.

“It’s against protocol.” The inspector swallowed. “I can’t let anyone on that train until bomb disposal have-“

“Mhmm. When are they getting here?”

“E.T.A twenty minutes.”

“Half a fucking hour.” Geralt laughed before his gaze fell back to the silent train. “I can keep him talking for twenty minutes, get him primed for the squad. Might even scare some sense into the little shit to see what trouble he’s caused. Open the doors.”

“I can’t, the protocols-“

“I know what the fucking protocols are!” Geralt didn’t yell but his words froze to ice and he saw the hesitancy on the D.I’s face. “You lost control of this situation when you called me in. Now open the doors.”

The train whirred into life and the lights in the cars came on one by one, Geralt could hear the muted gasps of surprise from the passengers as he stepped onto the train and the doors shut behind him. He knew he was breaking every rule in the book and he knew Vesemir would have his ass for it later but right now all he cared about was finding this kid and separating him from whatever was inside that rucksack so the innocent people peering at him through the connecting doors would be safe to return home to their families.

He put his finger to his lips and hoped they understood as he turned and made his way through an empty car and came across the toilet cubicle. The door was firmly sealed and the lock was turned to the red word _occupied_.

Geralt swallowed down his nervousness.

“Excuse me.” He said, loud enough and clear enough to be heard through the door. “My name is Agent Geralt Rivia, I’ve come from MI6 because I hear you’ve been making some threats.”

“M…MI6?” Came a terrified squeak.

“How old are you?” Geralt frowned.

“Shut up!” The _boy_ yelled through the door and Geralt did, holding his tongue for Queen and Country.

Instead, he took a step back and a cautious peer to his side to make sure none of the errant passengers had come into the car to investigate what was going on.

“Look, there are a lot of people on this train.” Geralt tried to sound as gentle as he could while making his voice loud enough to be heard through the locked bathroom stall. “You don’t want to hurt these people and you don’t want to hurt yourself. I’ve been doing this job for a long time and I’ve dealt with terrorists. They’re evil and they’ve got nothing to live for. That isn’t you, is it, son? Just talk to me, I’m here to help.”

Geralt waited silently for the kid to answer him.

Geralt meant what he said, knowing that the teenager on the other side of that door was more than likely some radicalised shit rather than a criminal mastermind, but he was no negotiator. He wasn’t trying to mollify him as much as he was trying to _distract_ him. He glanced down at his watch. He had fourteen minutes until bomb disposal arrived which meant he had fourteen minutes to separate that kid from that rucksack, but he couldn’t very well do it through a locked door.

“Why don’t you open the door, hmm, do you think you can do that for me?”

Another tense few seconds passed before the door creaked open and slid into the wall, revealing a teenage boy, no more than eighteen. He was tall and lanky with unwashed dark hair and sweat on his forehead. He was clutching a rucksack to his chest and even from here, Geralt could see the tell-tale signs of plastic explosive and blinking LEDs through the partially opened zip.

Geralt’s eyes wavered as he was unsure how sensitive a shoddily put together bomb would be. If they were extremely lucky it would turn out to be dud but Geralt would stake nothing on it.

Instead, he made a show of raising his hands above his head.

“Thank you.” Geralt said. “Now we can talk properly. Do you want to tell me your name?”

“Chris.” He answered quietly, his eyes darting distrustfully around Geralt.

Geralt kept his hands above his head and resisted the urge to flick his eyes across to his watch, knowing that one small movement could cause nervous wreck in front of him to retreat back into the toilet or worse.

This was why Geralt wasn’t a negotiator because every instinct was telling him to go for his gun and to plant a bullet between his eyes before he had a chance to detonate. If they were alone, he may well have done.

“Is it okay if I take my hands down?”

Chris nodded and Geralt slowly lowered his hands, glancing serendipitously at his watch. Eight minutes.

“Chris,” he said gently but firmly as he held his hands low. “I want you to give me that bag.”

“I can’t.” Tears streaked down Chris’ face and he took a step back, tightening his hold on the flashing rucksack and Geralt winced.

“Listen, I’m trying to help you, I can’t help you if you don’t give me that bag.”

Chris shook his head and Geralt thanked his years of undercover experience for the fact he didn’t scowl.

“Alright,” he licked his lips, “why don’t you put it on the floor? You don’t want to hold it anymore, do you? Its scary and it could go off at any moment. Just put it on the floor and then it’s gone, you never have to touch it again.”

The relief that crossed his face shocked even Geralt and he bent forward slowly, releasing his vice grip on the rucksack and setting it gently to the floor. When he stood straight again, his hands were bowed under the effort of holding something so tight for so long and it was that much easier for Geralt to lunge forward with a snarl and shove him back into the cubicle.

Chris yelled out in a mixture of shock and pain as Geralt held his wrist tight and twisted it around his back, shoving him face first into the cubicle wall. He flailed against Geralt’s hold.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Geralt growled into his ear, tugging on his arm harshly until Chris wailed. “Or I’ll break it.”

Chris sobbed and Geralt moved his other arm, cursing as he banged his elbow against the wall in the confined space, and checked his watch. As if on cue, the metallic whirr of the doors opening filled the train and Geralt kept Chris pinned easily as the Met’s bomb disposal unit crowded the space and carefully, carefully knelt beside the bomb.

…

Geralt stood in Vesemir’s office with his head hanging low between his shoulders as Vesemir stood behind his desk, his fists pressed so tightly against the varnished wood that it creaked under his knuckles.

Geralt dare not look at him.

“Never in all my years have I seen you acting so irresponsibly!” Vesemir _thundered_. “Never have I seen you walk into a terror situation half-cocked, _alone_ and with no regard for procedure. No regard for your own safety let alone anyone else’s! You could have been killed, Geralt, how dare you?”

“With respect, Vesemir, the bomb was disarmed and-“

“I don’t give a flying fuck about whether or not you succeeded. You will look at me.”

Geralt’s eyes flicked up.

Vesemir was frowning and his jaw was set, the tendons in his neck bouncing. Geralt had scarcely seen him this angry before and a wave of shame washed over him.

“I know you’re going through a tough time right now, lad, but if you ever pull this shit again I’m having your badge.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Geralt swallowed as he was chastised.

Vesemir sighed and rubbed his eyes before sitting back down in his chair.

“Sit down, lad.”

“I’d rather-“

“Sit.”

Geralt sat dutifully in the chair opposite Vesemir’s desk and tried not to wince too visibly.

“Your back still giving you jip, lad?”

“No.” Geralt answered honestly. “It’s nothing.”

Vesemir almost looked like he was going to interrogate him further when his expression cleared.

“Chris Radnor was a nineteen-year-old kid from Barking.” Vesemir changed tact at the speed of light. “He’s on the dole, mum a smackhead, dad absent. He fell into the wrong crowd who convinced him to leave the bomb on the train and I don’t believe it warrants MI6’s attention. That being said, you will be required to give evidence.”

Geralt nodded absentmindedly. It was almost worrying how easily they could slip into a debriefing without batting an eyelid. Geralt didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment, but then he rarely did.

“And err…” Vesemir hesitated.

Geralt looked up at him. He’d never known Vesemir to hesitate before.

“Sir?” He frowned.

“I’ve sent Eskel and Lambert to Sudan.” Vesemir said easily.

Geralt’s jaw set and his fists clenched in his lap and when he spoke, his voice hardened to flint.

“I thought we lost them.”

“Devenere’s accountant, Jack Karraway, was spotted in Khartoum making a monetary exchange two days ago. Either he’s with John Devenere or gathering funds to meet him and it won’t be long until he’s out of the country.”

Geralt was already standing.

“I know him.” He said hurriedly. “I’m in. Where…”

“Stop, Geralt.”

A cold bolt shot down Geralt’s spine as he turned back to the desk. Vesemir’s expression was resolute and the agent felt a tremor of panic as he realised he wouldn’t change his mind. He was close to begging but he didn’t, Geralt Rivia begged for no man.

“But I can help.” He sounded desperate, broken, pleading just without using the words and on some level, the man who had known him for practically his entire life, heard him.

“You’re too close to this, Geralt.” He admitted honestly. “You need time to process what…happened.”

“I’ve had time.” Geralt said, refusing to spend one more moment than he had to thinking about what had happened. “It’s been six months, this might be our last chance to catch them.”

“Which is why I’ve sent Eskel and Lambert.” Vesemir said. “And it’s why I’m sending you to a psychiatrist.”

Geralt blinked.

“A psychiatrist?” He repeated dumbly. “You think I’m crazy?”

“Not that kind of psychiatrist.” Vesemir shook his head. “A doctor who works in our field. This isn’t easy for anyone but I thought talking about it might help rationalise a few things in your head.” He cocked his head to the side as he apprehended Geralt. “Who have you talked to about this? Outside of work?” The question wasn’t malicious or probing, but it was delivered in such a way that Geralt’s silence was answer enough.

“I don’t need a doctor.” Geralt deflected. “So thanks, but no thanks.”

Vesemir sighed.

“If you refuse, I’ll have your gun confiscated and you’ll be suspended pending medical evaluation.”

Geralt’s mouth damn near fell open.

“Why does everyone think I’m crazy?”

“No one thinks you’re crazy.” Vesemir sounded exasperated. “We think you’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder; we think you’re grieving because someone you love has just died!” His words thundered towards the end of his sentence as if trying to hammer some semblance of self-care into his surrogate son’s thick skull. “Sometimes I think you were punched one-too many times as a kid, sometimes I think you like pain. If you’re not going to look after yourself, Geralt, then I’m going to do it for you.”

With that, Vesemir relaxed back in his chair and opened his laptop as if no raised words had been spoken between them.

“Your appointment is 9am tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

Geralt recognised his tone of voice, it was dismissal. He left without a word and a poor graduate recruits monitor got the brunt of his fist on the way out.

…

“Agent Rivia?”

Geralt looked up from his seat in the too-blue waiting room. He’d spent the last half an hour ignoring the table of newspapers and magazines in favour of staring calmly at the opposite wall.

It was exactly the same as being in the field. Geralt’s cool demeanour masked a sharp control, the anger at being forced into this situation. But Geralt had never been a slave to his own rage, it bubbled submissively beneath his skin waiting to be called on. Geralt was not a violent man, he was a man capable of violence and it was surprising how the same principle applied to his current situation.

He didn’t want to be in this therapist office and he didn’t want to spend the next hour talking about his _feelings_. He’d go as far as to say he was offended he’d been forced to do such a thing, he felt like Vesemir had tied up his bollocks and sent him on his way. But Geralt was not a violent man, so when the pretty lady popped her head out of her office and called his name, he stood immediately and smiled at her.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

A blush settled on her cheeks before she stepped back and allowed him into her office.

“Please, have a seat, Agent Rivia.”

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk before sinking into her own leather recliner. Geralt was afforded no such luxury with the simple plastic chair and he sat stiffly down and crossed his arms as an unconscious barrier between them.

There was a plaque on her desk. _Dr. Triss Merigold._

“I thought you’d have a couch in here.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” She asked.

“No, I…” Geralt shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair and planted his feet on the floor. He had been trying to be funny, maybe he shouldn’t be trying to flirt with his therapist. “I’m fine.”

It was the first, and he imagined not the only, lie he was going to be telling in this room. Because he was uncomfortable, not with his situation any more than he’d been five minutes ago, but with the damn plastic chair his back was bowed against. Geralt couldn’t explain it but he had a problem with hard-backed chairs. He couldn’t help but imagine he were being tied to them, with blades being run across the flesh of his exposed stomach or electricity surging from car batteries through his muscles, but it wasn’t the short of shit he needed therapy for. He’d like to meet the person with fond memories of torture, they would be the asshole that needed therapy.

Dr. Merigold was scrutinising him, her large eyes narrowed as if studying him like a painting, like he was fascinating to her even though he hadn’t opened his mouth yet.

“I bet you’ve seen a lot of things.” She finally said.

Geralt shifted slightly. He was unsure how to answer or what had prompted such a remark.

“I suppose.”

She planted her elbows on her desk and leant forward. “But have you ever lost a partner in the field?”

“I didn’t lose a partner.” He said without meaning to.

“Oh?”

Geralt sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Renfri, just thinking about her made his stomach twist in panic and anxiety that was only exacerbated by the fucking chair creaking below him under more than just the weight of his body.

“’Losing’ implies that it was an accident. Renfri was murdered. She was tortured and she was murdered. Please don’t gloss over that for the sake of polite conversation.”

She surprised him by smiling.

“I take it you’re a very forthright man, Agent Rivia, in all things. Do you suppose it’s because you expend all your effort bullshitting your way through undercover missions?”

Geralt pursed his lips to stop himself from smiling.

“It does take it’s toll, I grant you.”

“What about the boy on the train? What did you tell him?”

Geralt blinked.

“Uh, that he wasn’t a terrorist and he didn’t want to hurt anyone.” He struggled to recall.

“And did you believe a word of it?” She asked without missing a beat.

“Of course not.”

“I’d like to talk about the train, if that’s okay with you.” Dr. Merigold began gently. “About this very clear-cut divide you have between your personal life and your professional life. No, maybe that’s the wrong way to put it, between your _persona_ and your _thoughts_. You appear to act as if you’re agreeing with these terrorists in order to infiltrate and arrest them, does that ever leave a sour taste in your mouth?”

“Never.” Geralt replied.

“Why not?” She challenged.

“Because almost every dangerous terrorist I’ve dealt with over the last fifteen odd years are now in prison or dead and all of the lives they would have ruined and all of the people they would have hurt and killed are fine.”

He sighed and shifted his back against the chair again. He didn’t want to get into the complexities of the psychology of his job, especially not with a therapist who probably understood it a damn sight better than him, but he felt obligated to after such an accusation.

“To do this job, you’re a predator of a different kind.” He tried. “Agent’s have defected, it happens, but I know who I am and what I’m capable of, it’s not something I’m worried about. Worrying would be the first step in the wrong direction, in my book.”

Dr. Merigold finally sat back with a small smile of accomplishment on her face.

“See, now they sound like the words of a rational, well-adjusted field agent. A man who knows how to separate his work from everything else. That’s why I want to talk about the train. I want to know what made you blur that line.”

“I’m sorry?”

She didn’t blink.

“You stepped into a dangerous _terror_ situation with no partner, no backup and for no reason. You weren’t a predator hunting prey, Geralt, you were a predator _becoming_ prey. I think you’re behaving in this manner because of the death of your partner.”

“What are you insinuating?” Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ve read your case file, Geralt. I know your cover was blown and you don’t know who by and I know Renfri was dead long before you yourself were outed. I want to say your reckless behaviour is nothing more than survivors’ guilt but I think it’s more than that. With no clear person to blame, I think you blame yourself. I think you are, subconsciously at the very least, trying to get yourself killed in order to punish yourself for what happened.”

Geralt crossed his hands over in his lap and looked down at his knuckles. They were littered with scars, the bone hardened from years of training, and he waited for the day they would collide with John Devenere’s face and liquify it into bloody mush.

“Are you going to suggest they remove me from the taskforce?” He asked quietly.

“No.”

His eyebrows shot up and he finally looked at her.

“No? Why not?”

“Because I don’t believe stripping a suicidal man of the job he’s married to is the best way to begin a course of treatment.”

“I’m not _suicidal_.” The word sounded dirty in Geralt’s mouth. He’d known people who had killed themselves, and he knew all the hurt and misery they left behind, he’d never do that to anyone. “Look, with the greatest respect, Doctor, I don’t know why I’m here. That’s not because I disagree with therapy but my…problem, whatever you want to call it, can’t be fixed. She’s gone, forever, what am I supposed to do now?”

Dr. Merigold was wearing a look on her face like she was believing him for the first time, Geralt didn’t like the way that made him feel.

“You need to learn to live with what’s happened.” She replied simply. “You need to find a reason to live again, it’s the only way.”

“How?” He asked.

“Well, practically, I’m going to suggest we meet once a week to review your progress, and I’m going to start you on a course of mood-stabilising anti-depressants. How does that sound?”

_That sounds fucking awful_. Instead, he nodded stiffly.

“And, if it’s okay with you, Agent, I’d like to give you some advice.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t shut yourself out from the world.” She said earnestly, leaning forward and meeting his gaze. “Your life isn’t over, just a chapter of it. Something out there waits for you.”

“I don’t need anyone.” Geralt responded, as if on auto-pilot, feeling more dejected than when he came in. “The last thing I want is someone needing me.”

…

Geralt entered MI6’s headquarters in Vauxhall, London early on Monday morning after a weekend of starting his mood-stabilising medication. He’d been prescribed 100mg of _Citalopram_ which, aside from making him drowsy, hadn’t done much in the way of ‘mood-stabilising’. For some reason, he’d assumed they’d give him some sort of caffeine buzz but they hadn’t.

Geralt found himself in the briefing room for the first time in a long time. It was a narrow room with a long white table framed by several fabric-lined chairs. Geralt didn’t sit, instead he stood behind a chair and grasped the back of it with his broad hands.

Vesemir nursed a cup of coffee on the other side of the table while his Personal Assistant, a blonde, sprightly agent called Austin, sat beside him tapping away at his laptop.

Curiously enough, Agent Sabrina Glevissig, from their Narcotics division, was stood at the end of the room. She was wearing a dark suit with her red hair tied neatly back and her hands clasped behind her back. Geralt didn’t know her, they’d probably exchanged one conversation in their careers because they worked in such different departments, and that worried him.

“Okay.” He chuckled humourlessly, grasping the back of the chair more tightly. “You’ve got me grounded in the UK while Esk and Lamb take my mission, at least tell me you’ve got me doing something interesting instead of babysitting drug dealers.”

Vesemir smirked down into his coffee while Sabrina pursed her lips.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘babysitting’.” She said coldly. “The men and women we apprehend are dangerous individuals. It’s profoundly serious.”

“Well, I’d call national security slightly higher up on the country’s list of priorities than stopping some dealer selling weed to middle-class uni students but if we’re not splitting hairs…”

Sabrina’s frown deepened. She placed her perfectly manicured nails on top of a manila file and slid it across the table to Geralt with a surprising amount of force. He stopped it under his palm and kept a straight face as he picked the folder up and flicked it open. His gaze fell to a grainy photograph of three men, two oriental, one Caucasian, wearing tracksuit bottoms and body warmers and slipping into a powder-blue Peugeot 206 with the number plates removed. One held a black colt in his hand.

When he looked back up, both Sabrina and Vesemir were looking at him.

“These three individuals are part of a syndicate of, we estimate, between 20 and 30 members operating in London’s underground network. They’re bringing in product from Beijing and Hong Kong into Britain. Not marijuana, Agent Rivia, but heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine…”

Geralt held his hand up to stop her.

“What has this got to do with me?”

“You’re going undercover as a buyer.” Vesemir explained. “That way we can get a handle on how they’re operating, and the key entry and exit points in and out of the UK. Weak borders are no good for anyone, lad.”

Geralt smiled humourlessly down at the file.

This was child’s play. It was _rookie_ work.

_So, this is penance_. He thought coldly.

“When will the Gov. office issue my new identity?” He asked with a resigned sigh.

Vesemir, Sabrina and even Austin shared a look.

“What?” Geralt asked as his eyes darted between them.

“Austin will escort you.” Vesemir said, already standing.

Geralt frowned as Vesemir stole out of the room, Sabrina not far behind, leaving him with the PA.

“What’s going on?” Geralt asked gruffly. “Where are we going?”

“I keep forgetting you’ve been out of the country.” Austin admitted, closing his laptop and standing. “What with the mole in the British government, we aren’t using the usual channels to generate identities and documentation. Everything is either done in-house or…off the books.”

Geralt frowned.

“What are you talking about? Where are our fake I.D’s coming from?”

Austin packed his laptop away and slung his laptop bag over one shoulder before he looked at Geralt.

“We’ve got a new kid.”


	2. fretted minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As far as I can tell, MI6 have no specific narcotics division so it’s purely fictional.

Chapter Two

_fretted minds_

Geralt didn’t like this one bit.

He wore his distaste on his face as Austin, Vesemir’s P.A and, he supposed, his acting liaison officer, led him down the badly lit corridor of an apartment building in downtown Millbank.

The floorboards creaked under Geralt’s weight and every door they passed looked like it had seen better days. The wooden doors were poorly glossed with white paint that had long since yellowed and cracked with age and the corners of the of the ceiling were black with mould. The stench wriggled up Geralt’s nose and he scowled.

They stopped at the last door on the right. It was unimposing heavy wood in the same state of decay as the rest of them with a _65_ in peeling black stickers plastered at eye level.

Geralt’s hand didn’t flex but it did settle closer to his gun. He didn’t know who or what was behind that door and he hated, nor had much experience in, going into situations with little intel on precisely what he was walking into.

Geralt was ambivalent about what MI6 were doing by outsourcing their work in such a derogatory way. In many ways, he was angry with them for being so reckless with such sensitive information but then he also knew that freely giving that information to a government they couldn’t trust was not something he could willingly concede. If the Foreign Office hadn’t been aware of the Sudan operation, then Renfri would still be alive. But then on the other hand, if Geralt had just done his job properly when he’d had the chance then he would have discovered the identity of the mole and would be working a proper job with his partner, not stood in a block of grimy London flats like a criminal. His hand flexed.

Austin reached out and knocked with a muted _thud_ of knuckles on wood before he turned to Geralt. The agent had a good foot on that blond head but there was something about Austin that was so _sprightly_ he might as well have been ten feet tall.

“I should warn you,” he said, “this kid isn’t right in the head.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and inclined his head towards him.

“In what way?”

“He’s like a genius or something.” Austin explained. “But the weird kind, you know what I mean? He could probably rattle off the square root of Pi if you asked but he’s nervous, scared of his own shadow.”

“How did he end up in this line of work?” Geralt asked, a modicum of surprise finding its way into his usually so even voice.

“Talent?” Austin shrugged. “He makes the best fake I. D’s in London. He better, I mean, he’s not cheap. I reckon he does hacking work as well, not for us, but he’s got the computers in there.”

“He doesn’t just work for us.” Geralt’s mouth devolved into a thin line as he returned his attentions to the door. He wasn’t especially surprised; he knew the answer to that particular question long before they’d arrived.

“Agent Morhen thinks it’s best to keep people like that close.”

Geralt liked this even less than before. Every instinct told him to arrest whatever low life opened the door.

The door opened just wide enough to allow the head that popped through and Geralt’s shoulders stiffened for no other reason than he was _young_.

He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, probably even younger. He was tall but he hunched himself, his skin was pale and pasty like he needed the sunlight, he had dark, unwashed hair that hung against his cheeks and stopped at his chin and wide, nervous eyes that darted in an attempt to avoid looking at them. He had a drawn-out look in his eyes and dark, deep lines beneath his eye sockets like it had been a long time since he’d gotten a good night’s sleep.

He was _young_ , there was no other way to describe him. There was something about his features and the awkward way he held himself against the door that was undeniably _vulnerable_. This wasn’t what Geralt had been expecting and, consequently, he had no idea what to say.

“Jaskier?” Austin smiled happily, holding a hand out that was ignored. “Austin Young, MI6. This is my colleague, Agent Rivia, we have an appointment at 11am?”

Jaskier didn’t look at them as he stepped back and pulled the door back with him, revealing a short, red-carpeted corridor.

“Shoes off, please.” Was all he said before he left the door and disappeared down the corridor and into a door concealed on the right-hand side.

Geralt kept his expression neutral as he stepped into the flat and toed off his oxford’s by the door while Austin bent down to untie his own shoes. Geralt felt the tell-tale sparks of annoyance, or maybe the beginnings of a headache, forming behind his eyes as he padded down the corridor. The carpet was threadbare but soft against his black socks. Austin followed close behind despite the fact he was supposed to be Geralt’s liaison. Geralt was used to naturally taking the lead and it was nothing for him to push the wooden door at the end of the corridor open and walk in like he owned the place.

What greeted him was a largely ordinary flat. It was open-planned and to the right was a small living room with a single brown leather sofa and a TV propped up on a glass stand and pushed against the wall while a wooden coffee table separated the two. Beyond that was a small kitchenette and a flight of stairs that, Geralt presumed, led to a bedroom. The flat was dark and stuffy but it was clean, almost meticulously clean.

What really caught Geralt’s eye was a door at the opposite end of the flat. It was ajar and Geralt could see the unmistakable flashing of blue lights through the small crack.

The reason the door was open was because Jaskier was fluttering in and out of it and not bothering to close it behind him as he went. His mouth was moving as if he were muttering quietly to himself, and he held his arms tight against his torso. He moved with a perpetual hunch in his shoulders, like the ceiling was too low or he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

Suddenly he was making a beeline for Geralt and the agent just stepped aside as Jaskier passed him and shut the door behind him with a loud _thud_ of wood on wood. Geralt blinked. He could almost believe that the kid didn’t know anyone else was in the flat with him.

As if reading his mind, Jaskier looked at Geralt and pointed to the ajar door.

“In there, please.” He turned from him as soon as he spoke, his jerky movements as sharp and blunt as his quiet, northern tone.

Geralt shared a look of bemused solidarity with Austin before he crossed to the door, placed his hand on the wood and pushed it open.

The room was a reasonable space almost entirely dominated by a desk that was populated with four computer monitors. The towers sat below the desk. They were transparent with either plastic or glass so each complicated component could be seen and, Geralt realised, was where the blue blinking lights were coming from.

Geralt didn’t know anything about computers but he imagined Jaskier had built them himself. The monitors were alive with activity, dialogue box after dialogue box were open and filled with code that meant nothing to him, everything else was heaps of wires and Geralt turned his attentions away.

He was so surprised to find Jaskier hovering behind him that he almost jumped. The kid was as quiet as a mouse.

“I need to take your photograph.” He muttered.

Geralt, entirely too perturbed by the situation to relax, felt his shoulders tense.

“Where do you want me?” He asked gruffly.

“Over there by the back wall.”

Geralt turned to the back of the room. A section of the wall was painted eggshell white and crowded by two tall studio lights and a camera stand with an expensive-looking camera nestled in the cradle. It looked like a photography studio and stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the dark room.

Geralt rested his back against the wall and tried to ignore the glare of the studio lights as Jaskier fiddled with the camera stand about a metre in front of him. He was wearing a look of intense concentration as he brought the camera stand to Geralt’s eye level. He glanced at the agent to check and Geralt flicked his own gaze away in tandem, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring.

“You can look at the camera.” Jaskier muttered softly.

Geralt let his face even out into its usual dour mask as he turned his head and stared down the black lens of the camera.

Jaskier lifted his hands to the camera to take the shot. He was wearing a short-sleeved, brown t-shirt and when he raised his arms, the illuminating studio light brought his left arm into focus.

Geralt’s gaze fell to the crease of Jaskier’s inner elbow and the unmistakable puncture marks, both old and fresh, scattered without a pattern across flesh stained with dark bruises where the blood had been forced to the skin.

Geralt set his jaw and _glared_ at the camera.

Jaskier offered to show him the photographs for his approval but Geralt had declined with a grunt. He didn’t want to see the rage in his eyes he knew would be evident there. Jaskier had shrugged and kept his gaze on the ground, unaware of Geralt’s sudden ire.

“That’s two hundred pounds.” He said. “Twenty-pound notes only.”

Geralt placed the notes on the desk to avoid having to touch Jaskier in any way and Jaskier scooped the cash up and began counting it.

“It’s all there.” Geralt said, busying himself with adjusting his cuffs on his shirt to avoid looking at him.

“He needs to count it six times.” Austin murmured under his breath from where he was leant against the wall. “I told you he wasn’t right.” He muttered in response to Geralt’s frown.

Geralt returned his gaze to the kid in time to see him straightening the notes against the table meticulously before he reached for a tin box on a shelf above the desk and slotted the money carefully inside.

“What’s your real name?” Geralt asked curiously.

“No questions, it’s part of the deal.” Jaskier said as he slotted the tin box back on the shelf exactly where it had been before.

“How old are you?”

Jaskier looked at him then, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since they’d arrived. His eyes were wide and nervous but there was a cold edge behind the blue. Geralt didn’t feel threatened by it but he felt like he was _being_ threatened.

“I didn’t make a deal with you.” Geralt smirked coldly.

Jaskier’s gaze fell from Geralt’s and the agent blinked and it felt like he’d been released from something.

“You have to leave now.” Jaskier muttered, his eyes on the floor.

“Wait, I don’t-“Geralt stepped towards Jaskier instinctively and Jaskier backed off, his hand coming up in front of himself as if in shock, or maybe protection, or maybe even fear.

Geralt stopped still as a statue and hesitated before taking a gentle step back.

“Please go now.” Jaskier repeated, his right arm still raised in front of himself. It was then that Geralt realised he was pointing at the door behind them. His other hand gathered the hem of his shirt in his fist and began rolling the fabric between his fingers distractedly. “O…or they won’t be good. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”

Geralt left easily and didn’t even bother risking a glance back at the strange creature he was leaving behind. His intrigue, his morbid curiosity and his _anger_ had been replaced by a hollow feeling in his gut. He hadn’t meant to frighten the kid. He assumed Jaskier was the type to spook easily but he also knew how intimidating he could be. He was so used to throwing his weight around he may well come across as brash to others. He didn’t know why but feeling like he threatened people who didn’t deserve it always uniquely bothered Geralt. It made him feel less human somehow, like he was that removed from society he’d forgotten how to interact with ordinary people. Although Jaskier was the farthest from ‘ordinary’ Geralt had seen in a long while.

“I told you.” Austin continued conversationally as they walked back through the creaking corridor and to the lift. Geralt glanced down at his oxfords in relief. “He’s-“ He raised his hand to his temple, rotating his finger a couple of times in explanation.

“He’s not crazy.” Geralt sighed as he stared ahead.

He saw Austin glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

“What would you call it, then?” He snorted.

“I don’t know.” Geralt shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. Asperger’s? Touch of O.C.D. I’d imagine a pretty severe case of social anxiety.” His mind unwillingly went back to the score marks and bruising on Jaskier’s arm, but he kept that particular deduction to himself.

Soon enough, Austin started chatting away and Geralt began to tune out the pointless _natter_. He was a nice enough kid but Geralt appreciated silence when he got it.

“They’re all the same, his type.” Austin was saying. “Meds dries up the genius. Happy pills are a bit of a con, if you ask me, it’s just an excuse, isn’t it? People just need to be more _positive_.”

Geralt stayed silent as they stepped into the lift and the metal doors whirred shut on door number 65.

…

Less than twenty-four hours later and Geralt had sequestered himself away in an empty meeting room in the MI6 building in Vauxhall, only then realising that he didn’t have his own office. He supposed the field was his office. He made a mental note to ask for one before he plonked his paperwork down in the middle of the empty, beechwood table and attempted to make himself as comfortable as possible.

He rid himself of his suit jacket, loosened his dark tie a fraction and gathered his long hair from his eyes and tied it back in an errant ponytail before sitting on the, thankfully fabric-lined, chair and opening the file Sabrina had unceremoniously thrust his way the day before.

By the time he’d re-read the worryingly few pages contained within the manilla folder, he’d run his fingers frustratedly through his scalp so many times that he’d pulled enough errant white strands free that it made the entire ponytail pointless in execution.

This ‘syndicate’ as Sabrina had put it was made up of between twenty and thirty individuals. They were all male and of mixed Caucasian and oriental backgrounds. They were mostly between late-twenties and early-thirties and led by Damien Li.

There was only one recent photograph of him and it was the same photograph Geralt had seen before and had in front of him now – the grainy image of an oriental man with dark hair and a blue body warmer holding a colt and getting into a Peugeot 206. Most of the intelligence gathered on the syndicate was centred on Li himself. He was an ex-con recently released from a ten-year stint in Arizona, USA for drug smuggling across the border from China into the US. He’d been extradited to UK less than two years previously and in that time, he and his syndicate had practically eradicated the London underground drug market and made a monopoly on it themselves. It had come to the attention of the Secret Service through the metropolitan police, who had reported a serial amount of cases where adults and teenagers alike were being booked with identical, high-quality product the likes of which seasoned drug officers in the Met. had never seen before. They were different drugs - heroine, ecstasy, PCP - but from the same source. A myriad of witness statements, confessions, testimonials, and reasonable doubt based on Damien Li’s previous and his extradition conditions had led the narcotics division of MI6 to investigate whether Li was smuggling into Britain.

It wasn’t a complex or difficult case, the reason Geralt was near pulling his hair out from the roots was because he was furious. He was _offended_. He’d been with MI6 for nearly twenty years and had worked his ass off to become one of their most prolific agents, he’d sacrificed a normal life and all that came with that to do so, and this was his reward. He didn’t resent Eskel or Lambert, they were his brothers and he loved them, but he knew in his heart that he should have been in Sudan avenging Renfri, not sat in London doing nothing of value while John Devenere got further and further from the grasp of justice.

He heard the muted _clunk_ of the door being pulled open, but he didn’t bother to look up.

“Thought I’d find you lurking somewhere.”

“I don’t have an office."

Vesemir chuckled as he leant against one of the chairs opposite Geralt while Austin placed a non-descript brown envelope in front of him. Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

“Swung around to the kid this morning.” Austin explained. “Gotta dash, see you, boss.” Then he was out of the door with a flourish, leaving Geralt and Vesemir alone.

Geralt abandoned his paperwork and reached for the envelope.

It was made from thick, brown paper and crinkled satisfyingly under Geralt’s fingers as he tipped the contents out onto the table. A driver’s license and a passport greeted him and Geralt picked up the license. His own face glared up at him and tried to ignore it. He turned the small piece of plastic over in his hand, the light glinting off of the laminated surface. The holographic symbol beneath his photograph glinted with each movement of his hand.

Geralt frowned and reached into his jacket to retrieve his wallet and pulled his own license out. He held one in each hand and looked between them. The holographic symbol was identical.

Geralt was no expert but he’d handled many fake I.D’s in his time and what he was holding in his hand right now, there was no other word for it, was _flawless_.

When he finally looked up, Vesemir was smirking at him.

“See why we use him now?”

“Hmm.” Was Geralt’s stilted reply. The memory of Jaskier still sat wrong in his gut. He may well have been a genius, but his mind was addled, and using him for their purposes felt like they were exploiting that madness somehow. The license in his hand felt dirty and he wished he didn’t have it and he wished he’d never had to meet the strange young man who had so assiduously made it for him.

Geralt pushed his feelings to the back of his mind, as was so often his way, and refocused his attentions on his work.

“Thomas Drake.” He read aloud from the fake I.D. He looked up at Vesemir with amusement in his eyes. “Nightclub owner, mob-associate, looking to score.”

“You look like a nightclub owner.”

Geralt frowned.

“It’s the hair.” Vesemir explained. Geralt instinctively blew a white wisp from his eyes.

Vesemir pulled out the chair he’d been gripping, the wheels scraping across the wooden floor, before he sat. Geralt didn’t let his eyes drop back to the table like he wanted to because he knew Vesemir was about to say something. Knowing his luck lately, it was that the decision to retain him had been rescinded and he was being discharged.

“I wanted to check in.” Vesemir explained, his voice dropping low as a metaphor for the privacy of the matter irrespective of the fact they were sat alone. “How’s therapy? Are you taking your medication?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m doped up on ‘happy pills’.” He mimicked Austin with a roll of his eyes before returning his attentions to his paperwork.

“Well, you seem brighter.” Vesemir tried positively.

“Do I?” Geralt asked absentmindedly. He didn’t _feel_ any brighter. He’d gotten probably an hours sleep the night before, he was on his fourth espresso of the day and he was about to cosplay as a seedy nightclub owner with a fake I.D made by a smacked-up twink. It was a plot from a straight-to-netflix thriller starring Bruce Willis. Geralt didn’t know what was ‘bright’ about any of that.

“I suppose you won’t be taking a partner?” Vesemir asked. His tone suggested he already knew, and disapproved of, the answer.

“Nope.” Geralt drew out the word and the file in front of him was suddenly incrementally more interesting than it had been five minutes ago.

“Okay.” Vesemir acquiesced. “But you’re taking a backup and I want you wearing a wire.”

Geralt’s head snapped up.

“What, why?”

“It’s for the case.” Vesemir said. “We’ve got a rookie team of techie’s I wouldn’t mind training up a bit. I thought you could look after them.”

“Trying real hard not to be insulted here, sir.”

“Don’t be.” Vesemir looked unsympathetic. “It’s all important work and it needs to be done.”

“Sure.” Geralt muttered sarcastically under his breath. He’d been beaten, tortured, he’d taken lives and stared death in the face on numerous occasions through his tumultuous life but Geralt dare not risk the wrath of Vesemir should he hear him backchatting.

…

The tech van was set up a few streets away, populated with a rookie crew of six that Geralt hadn’t worked with before. One of the technicians glanced up at him as he taped the wire to his broad chest, trying to mask his nervousness.

Despite Geralt’s anger and annoyance at his predicament, he still gave the kid a reassuring smile.

“You’ll do fine, kid. We all start somewhere.”

The technician had smiled gratefully at him and wished him luck and Geralt had set off for the warehouse the syndicate had last been spotted at as using regularly.

Geralt parked with a loud _screech_ of tyres on concrete, the rubber throwing gravel around the expensive body of the dark green _Jaguar XJ_ before he stepped out into the murky mid-afternoon sunlight in a shining grey suit, his light hair tied high off of his face and a pair of dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He was in a secluded industrial estate in downtown Westminster, surrounded by a thick fog of warehouses and seven-tonne delivery trucks, both of which had seen better days and stood out in stark contrast to the shining black range rover parked almost obscenely in the dusty lane. Even as Geralt crossed the small distance between himself and the vehicle, his shoes turned grey with dust and cement.

Damien Li looked up from the bonnet of the range rover, over which he appeared to be having what looked like a rather serious discussion with a skinny man Geralt could only assume was another syndicate member. Damien Li was shorter than Geralt had imagined but he made up for it with broad shoulders and brawn. His hair was short and cropped to his scalp and framing his hardened face. His neck was black with faded tattoos and he glared distrustfully as Geralt approached. His hand flexed by the waistband of his trousers and Geralt knew he had a gun stashed there.

Geralt stopped a few feet in front of them and lifted his sunglasses from his eyes. He could feel the heavy presence of his gun tucked into his shoulder holster and the line of wire plastered down his chest.

“On your way, boss.” Li’s associate said, his voice hard and threatening.

Geralt chuckled darkly, rubbing his mouth with his hand and taking off his sunglasses with a clean swipe and pointing them at Li’s associate.

“I’m here for the organ grinder, not his monkey.” He slowly moved his glasses, and his gaze, to Li. “Mr. Li, I presume?”

Li took a measured step away from the range rover and crossed his arms, his gaze flicked to his associate before hardening on Geralt. Geralt glanced to his side, checking to make sure Renfri was still in his sights before his throat constricted and refocused his attentions on Li.

“What’s it to you?” He asked coldly.

Geralt’s smile was dazzling and dangerous and his laugh just a little unhinged as he closed his sunglasses in one hand and slipped the arm over the open buttons of his white shirt.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” He said after a moment. “There aren’t many people who don’t know who I am.”

“Then I’m one of them.”

Geralt’s smile was still fixed firmly in place.

“Name’s Drake. Thomas Drake. I own _Excelsior_. I trust you’ve heard of that?”

The effect of such a powerful name drop in this part of London was instant. Li uncrossed his arms and stood a little straighter while his associate’s eyebrows shot up.

“And what does the most expensive nightclub in London want with me?” Li asked guardedly.

“Let’s just say that every now and again I host some specific parties for important clientele, and they only sample the best delights.”

“Better find yourself a distillery, then.” Li said.

Geralt’s smile turned sharky and his teeth glinted under the muted sunlight.

“I think we both know I’m not talking about alcohol.”

Everything went silent.

Li turned to his associate, their eyebrows raised in silent conference, before he was approaching Geralt. Geralt’s form was solid and immovable. They’d both be on the floor dead in seconds if he needed them to be.

“I heard a rumour,” Li said quietly and Geralt could smell the stale smoke on his breath, “that _Excelsior_ is in league with the underground?”

The ‘underground’, Geralt knew, was the street-name used to refer to the mobsters that made the Metropolitan’s life hell on a daily basis and was precisely the reason they’d chosen the _Excelsior_ as their cover.

“All rumours have a grain of truth in them.”

There was a moment of quiet deliberation.

“And how can I trust you are who you say you are?” Li asked quietly, with a cock of his head. Now he was closer, Geralt could see a faded scar across his left eye that skewered his eyebrow.

Geralt hummed and slipped his hand into his back pocket for his wallet and presented Li with his driver’s license.

“You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t tend to carry around utility bills as proof of address.”

Geralt’s dry remark was ignored as Li stared intently down at Jaskier’s handiwork. It was a tense moment before Li’s face cleared and he smirked over at his associate.

He glanced back at Geralt and jerked his head to one of the warehouses.

“Come on in, we can talk business. How big is this party?”

Geralt waxed lyrical about the night of his fictional festivities as the three of them entered the warehouse. He ran his hand down his stomach under the guise of smoothing his shirt but he could feel the wire taped to his stomach and he knew every word being said was being listened to and recorded by the rookie tech team over three streets away.

Geralt knew this was protocol in these kinds of cases, to capture incriminating evidence, but he wasn’t born yesterday, he knew why Vesemir had put him on this case. It was to keep tabs on him, to ensure his location and a link of communication so he didn’t go rogue again. It was a collar and a lead.

Regardless, Geralt hadn’t worn a wire in over ten years when he’d been a rookie agent doing exactly these sorts of missions. He was hit in the stomach with a sickening melancholy – like he was a kid again with his first partner, Coën, who, along with Vesemir, had taught him everything he knew. Coën had long since retired and Geralt had become the agent he’d been but the difference was that Coën hadn’t taken a thousand steps back in his career. The wire on Geralt’s body made him feel like he’d been branded with his own inferiority and failure.

The warehouse was vastly large and filled with tens upon tens of plaster-wrapped wooden pallets the contents of which Geralt couldn’t ascertain from eyeballing them alone. He turned his back on them and focused on Li and his associate, throwing his shoulders back to make himself impossibly bigger than he already was and take ownership of the room.

He opened his mouth to speak but faltered when he saw a man perched on top of one of the pallets. Another two stepped out of the gloom and glanced distrustfully at him. He looked behind himself and felt something bad but not unfamiliar settle in his gut. A quick survey of the warehouse alerted him to the fact that it was crawling with syndicate members and they were all a bit perturbed by their guest.

 _That’s okay_. Geralt thought to himself, calming easily. _That’s what back up is for. It’s not going to get out of hand. You won’t let it._

He was certain it was medically impossible for the scar on the small of his back to twinge, but he was also certain he felt it.

Li leant against a pallet and propped his leg against it before he snapped his fingers and a Caucasian man with his hair tied back was next to Geralt with a silver platter and a suspicious white powder lined up on the shining surface.

Li smirked and jerked his head towards it.

“Call it a sample, we can fix you up with the best product, Drake, make no mistake of that.”

Geralt didn’t react outwardly but his brain was going a million miles a minute as he tried to think up an excuse not to snort the cocaine offered to him without offending anyone or making them suspicious. A treacherous part of Geralt’s brain reminded him that he had to do anything for the job. His hand trembled incrementally.

A faint _whir_ interrupted his ambivalent thought process, then a beep, then a distinct flash of red through his white shirt.

Damien Li stood straight against the pallet, his hand going for his waistband.

“Are you wearing a wire?”

“ _Fuck_.”

Geralt drew his gun and shot the platter-wielding syndicate member in the leg. The platter clattered loudly to the ground, white powder scattering across the floor and he yelled and collapsed as Geralt whirled, aiming his gun at Li only to find Li had his own black colt pointed at his forehead. Geralt froze, his eyebrow quirking to his right as another silver colt was pressed to his temple and the unmistakable cocks of metal filled his ears as multiple guns were aimed at him from all directions.

Geralt’s expression froze in fury as he stilled completely.

“Put your gun on the ground.” Li growled.

Geralt kept his eyes trained on Li’s as he slowly, slowly lowered himself down and relinquished his weapon on the stone floor by the platter while the injured syndicate member mewled nearby. Geralt stood slowly and every gun followed him as he moved.

“Put your hands above your head.”

Geralt raised his hands above his head, his muscles dancing with unspent energy and adrenaline and fury as Li dropped his gun and approached him. His hard face was mere inches from Geralt when he seized the agent’s shirt and ripped it open with a muted tear of fabric, revealing the wire plastered to his stomach beneath.

“What are you, Met? MI6?” Li turned his head. “Search him!” He barked.

Geralt had no choice but to stand there, neutered, as hands roamed over his body looking for weapons and coming away with his wallet. A soft growl left his mouth as he felt the unmistakable bite of rope being tied tight around his wrists and he was being dragged.

“Chuck him in the loading bay,” he heard Li saying, “we’ve got to clear the product out. If he’s MI6, he’ll have backup.”

Geralt was left in a small, empty room where the entire opposite wall was a corrugated metal loading door that presumably lifted to let the trucks back up to collect the pallets for delivery. He’d been shoved onto his side on the stone floor, his hands bound behind him, while the syndicate began to loudly move in the warehouse behind him. They’d taken his wire, his gun, his phone and his wallet. If his backup didn’t arrive soon, the syndicate would get away and Geralt would more than likely end up with a bullet between the eyes.

He closed his eyes in a mixture of regret and fury. Another fucking mission gone to shit. Geralt was certain he didn’t used to be this much of a fuck-up. Was this punishment? To die, bound like an animal, staring at the corrugated metal walls of his cage?

He cocked his head against the cold brick. The loading door was damaged, just slightly, around the corner. A truck must have knocked it on the way in or out because a corner section of the metal was twisted and protruding out with a spiked edge.

Geralt grunted as he pushed himself onto his front, his forehead solid and painful against the stone floor, and he braced himself and used all the core strength he had to bring himself up to his knees. He tried hard to keep his resultant groan silent so the syndicate members wouldn’t hear him.

As soon as he was on his knees, it was easier to manoeuvre himself across the small room and twist, letting his body collapse back against the metal loading door. He winced at the clang and kept his breathing quiet as he stared at the door at the other end he’d been deposited through. After a few moments of silence, he grunted and lifted his bound hands as best he could and rubbed them down against the metal of the door, blindly searching for the sharp edge.

He hissed in pain as the flesh of his forearm caught and tore on the jagged metal but he breathed through it, reminding himself it was good pain because it meant he was close. He forced his arms down again and again, wincing as he expected the blinding flash of pain that never came with each movement. He grunted when he felt the thick fibres of the rope binding his wrist catch on the spiked metal and applied as much pressure as he could. The sharp edge tore through the ropes and sliced through the skin of his palms in tandem and Geralt bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood as he tore the rest of the rope apart with brute strength and then his hands were free. He tossed the frayed rope, thick and heavy with blood, to one side and it took nothing for his shaking hands to find the release mechanism and the loading door _whirred_ loudly as it was drawn up and Geralt saw daylight.

There was no way the syndicate hadn’t heard that but Geralt didn’t stick around to find out. He bolted for the jag and pain sparked up his veins as he gripped the steering wheel but he ignored it as he floored the accelerator.

Not twenty minutes later had Geralt returned with his backup team in tow, his scabbing hands enclosed around a gun that wasn’t his own, to find the warehouse deserted and the range rover gone.

“Fuck!” Geralt yelled furiously. “ _Shit!_ ”

His foot connected with one of the pallet’s and the heavy wood ricocheted loudly against the stone floor.

…

They were nearing fifty miles away from Westminster and Damien Li was still turning Geralt’s fake license over in his hand, a disbelieving look on his face as the bastard’s face glared up at him almost mockingly.

“He has to be MI6.” Someone in the backseat spat. “We’re so fucked. We need to know who he is and what he knows.”

“Oh, yeah, and how the fuck are we supposed to find that out?”

“Will you lot shut the fuck up back there?” Li’s skinny associate, and the driver, yelled back furiously. “Give us five minutes to fucking think!”

Li, ironically, was the only one in the car who was calm.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” He muttered quietly, the light from the radio glinting off of the laminated plastic. “It’s fucking immaculate. MI6 ain’t this good.”

“Show me.” His associate murmured. Li held the license out.

“I say we get a tail on him,” the backseat piped up again, “he’s pretty noticeable. Won’t be that hard.”

“He was probably in disguise you fucking moron-“

“ _Fuck you_ -“

“Boss,” Li’s associate said quietly, ignoring the ruckus behind them. “There’s only one person you’re getting work this good from this side of London.”

“Who?” Li frowned.

“Jaskier.”


	3. you're my mission

Chapter Three

_you’re my mission_

Jaskier pottered around in his flat alone as he did every day, quietly muttering to himself as he straightened the coffee table for the hundredth time and stood back to check his handiwork.

He itched his arm. It still wasn’t straight.

His hand stilled on his arm and he dug his fingernails into his skin, leaving red score marks in their wake as he tried to convince himself just to throw it out. He didn’t need a coffee table, anyway.

Jaskier sighed and straightened it again.

He knew the coffee table wasn’t the reason for his stress. It was what was glaring up at him from on top of it. It was a letter that was addressed to him but he barely recognised the name written on the front. He did, however, recognise the handwriting. It was from his mother.

He kept loose contact with his family but he hadn’t seen them in nearly four years. Jaskier’s definition of ‘loose contact’ was mainly sending money across every few weeks into a special bank account for his little sister. He knew they didn’t need it, the Pankratz’ were well off and from old Polish money, but Priscilla was only young and Jaskier needed to feel like he was contributing in some way and ensuring she didn’t have a life that even remotely resembled his. He knew deep down he was putting a plaster over a bullet wound and that what she needed was a brother, but he couldn’t go home. He just couldn’t. Not after what had happened.

He shuddered even now just _thinking_ about it. Jaskier knew it was unfair of him to behave this way because it wasn’t his parent’s fault, after all, but it was trauma by association. Every time he saw his mother or his father or even his sister sometimes, it was all he could see, and he knew that being with them right now would break him more than he was already broken. At least if he stayed away, he could do something useful and provide for them even in the barest sense. He knew he was grasping at straws, but he had to grasp at _something_. It was amazing what started seeming logical when you had no one to talk to but yourself.

But it didn’t answer the question of why was she writing to him now? What could she possibly have to say after all this time that hadn’t already been said? Which meant the likelihood of it being _bad_ news was high and Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest just contemplating it.

When he finally managed to walk away from the coffee table he disappeared into the backroom and shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against the aged wood and taking a slow breath. The blinking blue lights of his computers soothed him, and everything finally went quiet.

His family had never understood, no one had ever stood, but then how could they if they had never heard the _noise_?

Jaskier had heard the noise for a long time. It was a gentle, nagging _hum_ just behind his eyes which made it hard to concentrate on anything. It was what made him do the kind of work that he did and what made him monomaniacal in his pursuits. When he was focusing so intently on the minute details of a document or code, he didn’t have to think about everything else. The world, as he knew it, stopped existing around him and he could breathe.

There was a loud knock at the front door and Jaskier’s body tensed against the wood. He turned his head to the side slowly as he thought.

The man from MI6 had already come to pick up the angry agent’s ID’s and Jaskier wasn’t expecting anymore clients today. He _never_ got visitors when he wasn’t expecting them.

His heart hammered in his chest anew and he focused on the blinking blue lights.

_It’s okay_ , he assured himself, _just ignore them and they’ll go away_.

Silence followed and Jaskier sighed and –

The knock came again, more aggressive and insistent, and Jaskier jolted against the door. He stole out of the backroom, locking the door on his equipment securely before he took a tentative step out into the corridor and peered down at the front door. Whoever was there was still knocking so intently that the wooden frame shook with each hammer of their fist.

He rubbed his fingers together in small circles before pawing his iphone through the pocket of his jeans, as if reassuring himself it was there. He didn’t kid himself that he could actually call the police, not with all the illegal tech in his backroom and the gear stashed under his sofa. For one mad second, he considered calling MI6 before frowning at himself.

He took a fortifying breath and stalked down the corridor to the front door. He’d meant to just unlock it but he hadn’t. Instead, his hands came to stop in front of the door, not quite touching the wood, just watching pointlessly as it shook under the abuse from the other side. Why was it so hard to open a door?

He growled and curled his hand around the lock and snapped it open and no sooner had he done so had the knocking stopped.

Jaskier hesitated and for the first time he began to suspect something was actually _wrong_.

The door was flung wide open and Jaskier tried to hold it shut but he wasn’t strong enough. The door shoved open, shoving Jaskier with it, and his back collided solidly with the hallway wall.

He winced and righted himself in time to see the back of a man walking down the corridor and towards the open door that led into the flat. He was tall and skinny, but he had on a black hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head. His boots scuffed on the red carpet and the wooden boards below squeaked and Jaskier winced.

“Your shoes, you need to take them off!” Jaskier babbled, launching himself forward. The hooded man turned to him. He was oriental with a bald head and a stern face. His expression hardened as he saw Jaskier and his hand disappeared under his shirt and came back with a loaded gun that he pointed straight at Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier let out an electrified _squeak_ and backed off as far as he possibly could until his back collided painfully with the door. He exclaimed in a mixture of pain and fear as the man stalked towards him, every forward step bringing the gun closer and closer to him.

Jaskier’s eyes flew to the ceiling as his palms slammed against the varnished wood and he pressed himself as hard into the door as possible as if he could disappear through it, but he couldn’t. He was trapped.

“Jaskier, I take it?” The man asked menacingly.

Jaskier kept his eyes firmly planted on the peeling paint of the ceiling, his breathing coming out loud and wheezing until he felt the cold metal of the gun barrel firm against his throat and he _wailed_.

“There was a man.” The intruder spat. “Client of yours. Big guy, long, white hair. You remember him?”

_Agent Geralt Rivia_ , his brain immediately supplied and it took everything in him not to shout the words out as soon as he’d conjured them up. Instead, he shook his head.

“No, no, no.” Was all he managed to say in response while asking himself why he was bothering to protect the jackass that had glared at him with such hatred.

He heard the unmistakable metallic _click_ of the safety being taken off the gun and Jaskier would have shuddered violently if he weren’t so afraid.

“I think you do remember.” He said. “I think you’re lying to me.”

Jaskier’s muscles tensed, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest he could feel it vibrating his rib cage. He was going to die. _Jesus, fuck_ , this maniac was going to kill him. Jaskier had regretted it ever since MI6 had first turned up on his doorstep and this was exactly why. He didn’t know anything about Geralt Rivia, aside from the snide, judgemental look he’d given him, but he knew he was a field agent and he imagined bodies followed in his wake and Jaskier didn’t intend to be among them. If he gave him up to this man, maybe he’d be let go.

“I want a _name_!”

The gun was pushed so hard into Jaskier’s oesophagus that he gurgled as he responded.

“I don’t know his name!” His words were pinched, hindered with fear and pain and pressure. “I swear.” Jaskier winced and squeezed his eyes shut. He thought something would have flashed across his eyes but it didn’t, he was paralysed with fear. The tips of his fingers felt numb with how tightly they were pressed against the wood.

“Then find out.”

The gun was pulled away from his neck and Jaskier collapsed back against the door, his head snapped down and his neck ached from having been strained for so long. He finally met the eyes of the man who had almost killed him and dark black pupils glared back at him.

“Use your contacts and call me on this number with his name and his location. You have twenty-four hours.”

Something small and white fluttered onto the ground at Jaskier’s feet and it distracted him, the hand on his shoulder was a surprise and Jaskier yelped out in shock and fear as he was shoved into the opposite wall. His shoulder collided painfully, and he groaned as he watched his attacker open the door and slam it shut behind him.

Jaskier’s tears fell thick and heavy as he sobbed into the crook of his arm and he cowered against the wall as if trying to make himself so small he would disappear.

It took a while for Jaskier’s convulsions to stop but even then, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Every time he tried to take a breath it got stuck in his throat. He wrapped his long fingers around his oesophagus and winced at the tender, bruising flesh. He could still feel the phantom press of the gun against his throat even now.

The piece of paper with the man’s phone number was lying on the floor about a foot away from him, the sterile white sticking out in stark contrast with the worn burgundy of the carpet as if a cruel reminder that what had just happened had changed _everything_.

His heart thumped and he heard it in his ears. Why was everything _so fucking noisy?_

Half-out of his mind and paralysed with fear, Jaskier pushed himself shakily away from the wall and stumbled back through the door and into the living room. He collapsed onto his knees by the sofa and reached blindly underneath it until his hand enclosed around the small baggie he kept stashed there.

He stayed on his knees as he crawled to the coffee table. Even as he did so, his mind zeroed in on the twist of the plastic wrap in his fingers and it calmed him and pushed all thoughts from his mind except for what he was doing. He laid the unravelled plastic out carefully on the table, the white power congealed within spreading out across the crinkled plastic as if relaxing. He wiped his eyes, sniffed to clear his nose the best he could and brushed his mothers’ letter to the floor without a second thought as he dumped his paraphernalia onto the coffee table.

He sprinkled a precise amount of white powder onto the small metal teaspoon, the steel rim already blackened from the same flame he held under it now. He kept the spoon steady, ignoring the heat travelling up the metal handle and itching against his fingertips as he watched the power dissolve and bubble under the heat.

The almost-syrupy liquid congealed in the transparent casing of the needle and Jaskier left it on the wood of the coffee table as he snapped a rubber band around his bicep, wincing against the tight pressure before slapping his veins to force them to the surface and skewer the dark, mottled bruising there like lightning strikes.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate to press the sharp tip of the needle into his skin and he didn’t wince, not anymore, as he depressed the plunger and welcomed oblivion.

He shivered as the heroin penetrated his blood stream and the effect was instant. A serene numbness spread through his body and his eyes rolled back into his head. He tried hard to support himself against the coffee table, his knuckles white with how hard he gripped the wood until he fell, unguarded to the ground – but it didn’t hurt.

Jaskier’s mind went blank as if wiped clean and everything was blissfully, _so blissfully_ , quiet.

…

Sometime later, and after Jaskier had sufficiently recovered, he wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand before he brought his phone to his ear. He knew this was the right thing to do, or at least he hoped it was. He didn’t want anything more to do with MI6, but they had to protect him, didn’t they? Especially after he’d protected them. It occurred to him that he may have outlived his usefulness and become more of a burden than an asset and their ‘protection’ may well be to throw him in a prison cell. He glanced hesitantly at the phone in one hand and then at the scrap of paper in the other with the phone number of his attacker scrawled over it. He shook his head; he’d rather be in a cell than still here when that man returned to put a bullet in his head whether he gave up Geralt’s name or not.

He thumbed the green button on his phone screen before he could talk himself out of it and pressed the phone to his ear. It was answered on the second ring.

“ _State your name and business_.” An unfamiliar voice said calmly.

“I, err…” Jaskier trailed off as he clenched and unclenched his free hand. “I…I’m Jaskier, I work for you.” He winced. No he didn’t. _Associate_ would have been more appropriate. _Indentured servant_.

“ _Please hold_.”

They kept him on hold for a long time before the receiver clicked back to life.

“ _This is Agent Morhen, I instructed your employment. You shouldn’t contact this number. If we have work for you_ -“

“There was a man here.” Jaskier interrupted bluntly. He began pacing up and down the small flat as he recalled the threatening encounter. “A Chinese man. He was looking for Geralt Rivia.”

“ _Did you tell him anything_?” Vesemir replied without hesitation.

The blunt, almost stoic, response calmed Jaskier and he sighed.

“No.” He admitted. “I didn’t say anything. He gave me a phone number and said I had twenty-four hours until…” He trailed off, his bottom lip trembling.

“ _You did the right thing, lad_.” Vesemir’s voice sounded incrementally softer around the unfamiliar but affectionate moniker. “ _Police protection will be there as soon as_ -“

Jaskier was shaking his head despite the fact Vesemir couldn’t see him and his heart sky-rocketed in panic just at the _thought_.

“No, you can’t. Please. No…no one can be here but me.”

The line went silent for a moment until – “ _Okay, just stay put, I’ll take of it_.”

“ _Okay_.” Jaskier murmured quietly as his eyes welled up and the line went dead, and his requested loneliness caved in on him like a rockslide.

He held his phone to his mouth, the touch screen lighting up against the press of his lips and shimmering through the tears in his eyes like a kaleidoscope as he gripped his elbow painfully to remind himself that he was still alive.

…

The tyres of the _Alfa_ burned against the worn tarmac of the M4 as Geralt floored the accelerator at a steady 85mph. Even so he was being overtaken by a silver Skoda and glared at its break lights as if he were challenging it.

The sun was just beginning to crest against the horizon and Geralt winced before pulling the visor down to shield his eyes as the fiery orb threatened to skewer his vision.

The screen from the dashboard darkened and replaced the Sat Nav with Vesemir’s name in white lettering. Geralt let his free hand fall from the visor to the screen and jabbed the green phone icon without missing a beat.

“Talk to me.” He said.

“ _Geralt_.” Vesemir’s voice echoed from the car speakers. He sounded stressed and it was enough to cause Geralt’s eyes to flick momentarily from the road to the screen as if he could somehow garner information from it. “ _It’s the syndicate, they’ve gone after the kid_.”

Geralt frowned before realisation relaxed his features.

“What, Jaskier?”

“ _They must have traced you back to him somehow_.”

A cold dread settled heavy in Geralt’s stomach before being replaced with the more familiar, and hotter, rage that fuelled each and every one of his actions. Geralt _snapped_ and slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. The leather shuddered dangerously as the abuse to his scabbing palms pulled a similar noise from the agent.

“Fuck!” He yelled. “He’s a _fucking kid_. _Fuck_.”

His breath came out in a low shudder as he fought to calm himself. He focused on the pain in his hands and let it bring him back to the car and the road in front.

“Is he okay?” He finally asked.

“ _For the moment, but he refused police protection. I can’t guarantee his safety without compromising his requests_.”

Geralt pooled everything he had into focusing on the pain and his grip tightened around the steering wheel until he was grimacing in discomfort and the scars on his knuckles stood out in contrast to his pale skin. He couldn’t care less about his hands. He was thinking solely of Jaskier.

Geralt wasn’t surprised that Jaskier refused protection, he remembered the way he’d shunned any and all contact when they’d been at his flat. He didn’t particularly _understand_ social anxiety, but he’d never had a broken leg either and he’d never ask a man with a shattered bone to try and walk. Still, his magnanimity couldn’t stop him from being irritated. Jaskier didn’t understand that he was playing with his _life_.

“What do we do?” He asked.

“ _There’s a safehouse free in Coventry_.” Vesemir explained. “ _I say we evacuate him outside of London as soon as possible. There’s at least thirty of them, I want him out of the city. They gave him twenty-four hours to give up your name and that’s only twelve now_.”

Geralt hesitated.

“He knows my name.”

“ _He pretended he didn’t_.”

Geralt didn’t respond.

“ _Geralt_?” Vesemir asked. “ _You still there_?”

“I’ll take him.” The words were out of his mouth before he’d even registered them and Vesemir understood about as much as Geralt did. Jaskier had left a sour enough taste in his mouth from their first and only meeting to dissuade Geralt from ever wanting to be in the same room as him again. But the thought of _another_ innocent life being taken because of _him_ prodded something sore and wounded deep inside of his core. Geralt wasn’t Geralt right now, he was Agent Rivia, and he was a solid brick wall between Jaskier and harm.

“ _Are you sure?_ ” Vesemir sounded surprised.

“Yes. He’s only young, for fucks sake. He’s got nothing to do with this.” Geralt sighed and winced as his hands really started to throb. “Let me get him to Coventry and then once he’s safe we can deal with the syndicate.”

They both stayed uncharacteristically silent for a moment at the bleakness of Geralt’s statement. They both knew they were no closer to the syndicate than they were after Geralt’s botched mission.

Geralt was waiting for Vesemir to say it, to say what Geralt didn’t want to: that the only solid lead they _had_ was Jaskier and they should have been keeping him in the city and using him as bait to lure the syndicate out in twelve hours’ time. Neither of them said anything.

“ _You’ve got until tonight_.” Vesemir barked, as if annoyed, before the line went dead.

Geralt’s eyes hardened to steel as he flicked his indicator on and left the motorway at the nearest exit and turned back to Jaskier’s flat.

…

Geralt rapped his hand on the door, the aged varnish cracking under his knuckles while his other hand grasped the wooden lintel above the door, so his entire form crowded the frame. When the door opened, Jaskier shrank back the _size_ of him and the sudden overwhelming presence of Geralt in his life.

Jaskier looked the same as when Geralt had seen him the other day. He was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a dark green, short-sleeved t shirt. He had nothing but socks on his feet and his hair was pushed back behind his ears and he had a haunted look in his tired eyes.

Geralt was in too much of a rush to give much heed to Jaskier’s bizarre mannerisms and instead he barrelled past him and down the corridor. Jaskier jumped back in alarm and spun around, as if to protest, before he caught sight of Geralt kicking his shoes off by the door before disappearing inside. Jaskier gave the abandoned oxford’s a bemused look before padding into his own flat after the agent in curiosity.

Jaskier found Geralt in the living room, pulling the sofa cushions away and throwing them haphazardly behind himself. Panic flared in Jaskier’s stomach that Geralt might find something he shouldn’t have but Geralt quickly abandoned the sofa and left the cushions strewn on the floor as he shoved the coffee table from its spot to check underneath it. Then he was stood at the television and running his hands up and down the back of the flatscreen and moving the glass stand just a fraction of an inch of where it normally was.

“Hey, stop!” Jaskier finally found his voice as he shot across the room and came to a halt behind Geralt. His hands were in front of himself, reaching for Geralt’s back as if trying to pull him back without touching him. Jaskier’s hands stilled as they framed Geralt’s shoulder blades, he could feel the heat of Geralt’s scorching frame under his palms as if he were warming his hands on an open fire.

Geralt abandoned his pursuit of trashing Jaskier’s living room and turned, the rug on the wooden floor the only thing stopping him from slipping over in his haste and jolted when he came face to face with the younger man’s outstretched hands as if to grab him. Jaskier let his arms flop to his sides as his cheeks burned and his eyes hit the floor.

Stood face to face like this made it hard to ignore the fact that there was barely an inch difference in height between them, but Geralt was still a large man. Whereas Jaskier’s bad posture made him stoop and any natural bulk he had was subdued by undereating and drug use, Geralt was stiff and tall, broad and muscular. His jaw was set, his eyes hard as flint and the tendons in his neck were as thick and as fibrous as ropes. Jaskier gulped.

“Did he touch anything when he was here?” Geralt asked.

“N…no.”

“Are you sure?”

Jaskier shook his head gently.

“He didn’t get past the corridor.”

Geralt looked away and ran a hand through his hair, pulling errant white strands from its tie before he nodded at the wall. He took two steps back, his eyes darting around the flat as if contemplating his next move before his eyes _snapped_ back to Jaskier.

“Did he hurt you?”

Jaskier’s hand went to his neck automatically and Geralt followed it, noticing for the first time the blossoming bruise at the hollow of his throat.

“No.” Jaskier didn’t sound convincing. “He had a gun.”

Geralt shut his eyes almost as if in defeat. He didn’t care how messed up this kid was, all he could hear were the words Jaskier wasn’t saying; that a strange and threatening man had entered his home and shoved a gun at his throat and it was _Geralt’s fault_. Jaskier could have died because of him, just like Renfri, and it was more than his battered soul could bear.

“Okay, look,” he fought to keep his voice even, “there’s a safehouse in Coventry I’m going to take you to and you won’t be in any danger, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Jaskier was already shaking his head even before Geralt finished speaking.

“No, I can’t leave.”

“Yes, you can-”

“No, I _can’t_.” It was almost a _snarl_ and Jaskier’s annoyance thickened his soft accent like syrup. “You don’t understand, the _noise-_ ”

Geralt wasn’t sympathetic or interested in Jaskier’s mental state right now, all he could think about was the clock ticking down on them and all MI6 would lose if Jaskier was captured.

He grabbed Jaskier’s arm with a gruff grunt and yanked him towards the door. Hell, he’d carry him out if he had to.

Jaskier wailed and snatched his arm back from Geralt’s grip with a tug strong enough that Geralt let go and watched as the man, well, there was no other way to put it, _cowered_ back a solid three feet as his arms wrapped around himself protectively and his eyes hit the floor.

Geralt blinked and let his arm drop to his side as he sighed.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

Jaskier apprehended him cautiously for a moment before he unwound his arms from his torso and Geralt noticed fresh puncture marks on his inner forearm and a wave of nausea spread through him and he had to stop himself from turning on his heel and stalking out of the flat.

Instead, he set his jaw and slowed his breathing.

“Come with me.”

“I can’t.” Jaskier replied with a shake of his head before he met Geralt’s gaze. The look in his eyes was broken and ancient for someone so young. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and a part of Geralt recognised it and he found himself holding his hand out.

Jaskier looked at the bloody bandages wrapped around Geralt’s palm and his eyes narrowed.

“What happened to your hands?”

“I hurt them escaping the syndicate.”

“The _syndicate_?”

“It’s what we’re calling the drug dealers that attacked you.”

Jaskier’s eyes hit the floor.

“Drug dealers,” he murmured quietly before he winced as if he was in pain. “Please leave.”

He turned his back on Geralt and made his way to the backroom, scratching the marks on his forearm absentmindedly as he did so.

“If you don’t come with me,” Geralt called after him, “they’ll kill you faster than heroin can.”

Jaskier stopped walking and when he glanced back, his eyes were wide with resignation.

“You don’t understand.” He muttered quietly.

“We’ve all got baggage, kid. We’ve all hurt people.”

“I’m not hurting anyone-”

“ _Like fuck you’re not!_ ” Geralt exploded without thinking. Jaskier’s eyes hit the floor and he trembled and Geralt took a deep breath as his ire faded as quickly as it had risen.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Geralt told Jaskier’s floor. “You’re coming with me and you’re going to be safe.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.” Geralt said with relief, he could feel Jaskier’s agreement even if he hadn’t said the words. “Look, I’ve got some things to sort out, but I’ll be back in an hour. Pack a bag but only the essentials.” He headed for the door. “Don’t leave the flat.”

Geralt turned back suddenly as if he meant to say something before deciding against it and leaving the flat as quickly and noisily as he’d entered it.

Jaskier blinked. He’d always thought _he_ was strange.

Jaskier stared at the door for the longest time as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. The thought of leaving his home to go with Geralt Rivia was nauseating. He didn’t know how the agent claimed to protect him from the very people he’d brought to his doorstep. But he knew he didn’t have a huge amount of choice. If he left of his own accord he had nowhere to go and if he stayed, then the bald _syndicate_ member would be back tomorrow and put a bullet in his skull.

Frustrated, he pulled an old rucksack from the cupboard below the boiler and made quick work of grabbing a neat stack of cash from the tin tucked safely on the shelf and the rest of his gear from under the sofa. He frowned at the compacted cling film and the small amount of white powder contained within. Was this all he had left? How much had he done earlier? He pulled out his phone on autopilot and his finger hovered over the name of his usual dealer, but he hesitated as he remembered Geralt’s instructions not to leave the flat. He shuddered to think what the man who was so clearly anti-drugs would do if he caught him.

He packed his toothbrush and his deodorant before he jogged up the stairs and into the bedroom for a couple of changes of clothes and was just about to leave when he passed his bed and glanced back. He didn’t normally leave it out, he wasn’t worried anyone would see it, but everything in his flat had its place. He wasn’t as obsessive about tidying his dildo away as he was with everything else in the flat but he did feel a sense of shame when he saw the soft purple silicone that he always felt when he wasn’t in the throes of excitement. But that wasn’t the reason he hesitated now.

He didn’t know how long he was going to be gone or even where he was going and Jaskier knew, through trial and error, that he couldn’t masturbate without it. There was no way he was packing his dildo but the thought of not being able to release when he wanted to, despite his low sex drive, filled him with anxiety.

He made up his mind quickly and dropped the now heavy rucksack on the floor with a soft _thud_ and unbuttoned his jeans. When he sat on the bed, his bottom half was naked, and he pushed himself up onto his knees on the pliant mattress and picked the cool silicone up with one hand. It wasn’t particularly big, Jaskier assumed, but it worked for him and it made a lump gather in his throat as he was assaulted with the memory of the heavy stretch inside him.

He kept the dildo grasped in one hand as he reached across the bed for the dispenser bottle of lubricant he kept on his bedside cabinet before he reached back behind himself and pressed his slippery index finger against his hole. Jaskier shivered hard no matter how many times he’d done this to himself. He was a virgin, which was a surprise to absolutely no one, and the thought of having someone put their hands where his hand was now was terrifying and unwelcome, yet there was still some part of him that _wondered_ what it would feel like to have someone else touch him and to not be able to anticipate their movements; to not have them stop when it became unbearable to keep pleasuring himself.

He cast the thought off as soon as it swelled inside him and pressed his finger inside of himself and sat back on his hand, rocking his hips slowly back as he sunk deeper inside himself and felt his warm palm press against the cool skin of his ass.

His eyes slid closed as he pursed his lips and pressed his middle finger in alongside the first and gasped as his hips dropped down and he rode his hand for a few errant moments before he remembered himself and pressed his free hand against his half-hard cock.

He frowned as he tried to concentrate, tried to capture the small sparks of pleasure under his fingertips and build them to their climax. He knew he wasn’t in the mood for this and it felt like a chore, but he’d started now which meant he couldn’t stop until he’d finished. It was the only thing that would grant him even just a modicum of peace when Geralt came back.

An image of the white-haired agent flitted across his mind at the thought in tandem with a rather rough rock of his hips and he gasped as his fingertips jammed against his prostate. The hand around his cock tightened instinctively and he opened his eyes and dropped his head to see a tell-tale and promising drool of pre-come gathering at his exposed slit. He rubbed his finger over the vulnerable opening with a shiver as he let his hand slide free from his ass with a _squelch_.

He reached for the dildo and slicked it up with his wet fist before setting it face-up on the bed behind him. It took a few attempts to blindly penetrate himself but soon enough the head of the silicone shaft caught against his sopping rim and Jaskier sunk down with a soft sigh. It didn’t hurt but the stretch always made his breath catch in his throat.

He wrapped his hand back around his cock as he began to rut incrementally on the pliant silicone, the bulbous head dragging across his prostate with every twitch of his hips and he gasped.

For years now Jaskier had only been able to get off with something shoved up his ass and he had no idea why. He imagined it was the smack lowering his libido and forcing him to turn to less conventional methods to get off as with everything else in his life.

He opened his eyes and reached for his phone even as he kept bouncing, the screen lit up under the press of his finger and he groaned as he realised he only had twenty minutes until Geralt was due back. Another flash of pleasure shot through him and he shuddered before promptly letting go of his dick. Jaskier had no idea why he was edging himself, he didn’t have _time_ for this, but just the thought of Geralt walking into his bedroom and finding him like this ignited something annoyingly in the pit of his stomach. He imagined those thick, muscular arms that had grasped him so firmly earlier grabbing him in a _different_ way and he jammed himself back on the dildo. His hand on his cock sped up and he let out a small sound as come dribbled from cock.

Jaskier’s legs shook as he came down from his orgasm and he sat still for a moment, impaled and ashamed. Why had he just done that? And why had he thought of Geralt Rivia when he had?

He raced to wash and hide the sex aid before he threw himself in the shower and scrubbed away his shame. He’d just managed to pull on a fresh pair of clothes straight from the dryer by the time there was a swift knock at the door. As he padded down the corridor, bag in one hand, he prayed Geralt wouldn’t be able to see or _smell_ what he’d just done.

Geralt, however, seemed wholly disinterested as he leant by the doorframe and gestured with one hand for Jaskier to walk through it.

Jaskier shouldered his rucksack and tried to walk past him before Geralt’s gesturing hand moved in front of him and Jaskier stilled, only then noticing the black _Samsung_ in his palm. Jaskier hesitated for a moment before he took it and turned the sleek plastic over in his hand.

“I don’t think I need to explain to you why you need to leave your phone here.” Geralt explained.

Jaskier swallowed and pulled his iphone from his front pocket before he placed it gently on the small table by the front door. It felt somehow final to leave his phone behind as Geralt closed the door behind him.

Jaskier felt a strong sense of foreboding as he followed the larger man down the corridor with nothing but a few measly possessions in his hands while his life hung loose in Geralt’s.


	4. the taste of death

Chapter Four

_the taste of death_

They sat in silence as Geralt sped down the M40 to Coventry. It was only a couple of hours down the road and Geralt hoped to have this done as soon as possible to get the kid out of harms way and turn his attentions back to Li and the syndicate. He just hoped it was far enough away that the entire exercise wasn’t pointless, but the fact was they just didn’t have the time or resources to remove him down to Cornwall right now like Geralt would have preferred.

Among other things, Geralt had spent his hour away from Jaskier rebandaging his hands and the off-white stood out against the black leather of the steering wheel while Geralt pretended like driving was taking up his full attention and the road peeling past in front of him was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

Jaskier was sat in the passenger’s seat. His rucksack was abandoned in the footwell while he’d pulled his legs up to the seat and sat with his arms wrapped around his knees as if making himself into a ball. He was looking out of the window absentmindedly, just watching the world go by.

Geralt glanced over to him for probably the millionth time since they’d started driving. He had half a mind to tell him to get his feet off the seats, but he bit it back. He’d already freaked him out enough at the flat and this drive was already going to be a lot longer than it needed to be.

Jaskier hadn’t said a word since he’d put his seatbelt on nor had he moved his head a fraction of an inch since he’d started gazing out of the window. Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d forgotten Geralt were in the car at all.

The sun was so high in the sky on the dull spring day that Geralt winced against the sudden glare as the rays penetrated the windscreen. He pulled the visor down and didn’t think twice about reaching across to the passenger’s side to the glove compartment to retrieve his sunglasses.

Jaskier recoiled at the unexpected proximity and Geralt snatched his arm back in surprise. He hesitated for a moment as he waited for Jaskier to say something, but he didn’t. Instead Geralt put his hand back on the steering wheel and stayed silent. Geralt hoped that Jaskier was just jumpy, he had more than enough evidence to support that hypothesis, but he was unwillingly swamped with the same feeling of dread he’d felt the first time they’d met. Jaskier was _scared_ of him and Geralt manhandling him hadn’t exactly helped the situation. He set his jaw and tightened his hand on the steering wheel. He didn’t think he could fuck this up anymore if he actually tried.

Geralt wasn’t to know that Jaskier had caught sight of Geralt’s arm reaching across him and when he had, the sleeve of his white shirt had ridden up over his forearm. His hand was large and skewered with thick veins, his knuckles were criss-crossed with faded scars and there was no way Geralt could have known that every detail registered in Jaskier’s perceptive mind with more ferocity than he could describe and the reason he’d jumped so alarmingly was because, not half an hour ago, Jaskier had orgasmed pitifully with images of those hands on his body.

They both remained silent, but the atmosphere was thick, _palpable_ , between them and filled with questions and insecurities and distrust. Jaskier carried on staring out of the window and Geralt was close to putting the radio on to fill the deafening silence.

“Why me?” Jaskier asked the window sullenly.

Geralt glanced over to him instinctively.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why did they come after me?” Jaskier contextualised. “How did they know I knew you?”

“I didn’t tell them if that’s what you’re getting at.” Geralt snapped.

“No.” Jaskier sighed as if he hadn’t even contemplated the thought. Geralt deflated and cursed himself internally. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just have a normal conversation? He had to remind himself not everyone was an enemy trying to kill him.

“I don’t know.” Geralt admitted honestly. “My cover got blown at one of their warehouses and they got away before we found out.”

Jaskier snorted derisively and Geralt glared at him. He felt like Jaskier was mocking him and questioning his competency and he didn’t even have the decency to look at him as he did so. He wanted Jaskier to look at him as he insulted him, to see how annoyed Geralt was at this smacked-up freak judging _him_.

“And if I hadn’t have come for you, I can promise you they would _make_ you give up every name and location you know.” Jaskier’s hand trembled against his knee and Geralt’s gut twisted in sick satisfaction. “See,” Geralt twisted the knife, “this is why MI6 should never consult with people like you.”

“I didn’t want to do _anything_ for MI6.” Jaskier bit back, turning to Geralt for the first time. He held his legs to his body, but his eyes narrowed, and the car became incrementally smaller around them.

“Don’t act like you were forced to do anything.” Geralt scoffed. He allowed himself a modicum of pride for raising Jaskier’s heckles and getting the reaction he desired from the docile creature. “We’re the good guys.”

“Yeah, well, when you falsify documents for a living and the police come knocking at your door, you might feel different.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been doing anything _illegal_.” Geralt shot back.

“How many people have you killed?”

Geralt baulked as Jaskier ended the game of insult-tennis they’d devolved into playing. Geralt’s head snapped from the road to Jaskier but Jaskier wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wasn’t interested in seeing the results of his victory on Geralt’s face, instead he was looking at his fingertips and wringing his hands together like he was incapable of staying still.

“What?” Was all Geralt managed to say.

“There’s a difference between what’s right and what’s legal.” Jaskier explained hotly. “I refuse to take morality lessons from a man with a gun under his jacket.”

Geralt had enough undercover experience to keep his reactions to himself when anyone said something that hit a little too close to home, so despite how much he wanted to throttle the little smart-arse next to him, he didn’t. Jaskier wasn’t wrong, Geralt had killed people but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t as cut and dry as that. Renfri had always rationalised it as choosing the ‘lesser evil’, that they made tough decisions so people like Jaskier could live in relative peace.

When he was undercover, any discernible reaction from Geralt could mean life or death for him, but he was relaxed enough in the car that he didn’t have to hide his anger for fear of repercussions. He wore his scowl on his face and didn’t reply. The conversation was _over_.

He saw Jaskier glance at him out of the corner of his eye, but he refused to return it. After a long moment, Jaskier gave up and leant back in the passenger’s seat, hugging himself tighter as he looked back out the window.

Geralt could feel the waves of anxiety broiling off of the man almost as strongly as he could feel his own heart beating in his chest as if their twin traumas were reaching out and shaking hands when the two of them couldn’t look at each other.

Geralt glanced sideways at his watch and was glad to see, for the first time, that it was almost time for his meds.

The silence was thick for about ten minutes until Jaskier’s sharp intonation cut across it like a knife: “we’re being followed.”

Geralt’s eyes flicked from the road to Jaskier.

“What?”

“Blue _Ford Mondeo_ , WF10 KJM. It’s got a crack in the front headlight and a dent in the bonnet. It’s behind us.” Jaskier rattled off robotically and that was when Geralt realised Jaskier wasn’t looking out of the window, he was looking _behind_ them.

“So?” Geralt tried to keep the scepticism out of his voice. “It’s a long motorway.”

“It circled the roundabout onto the motorway three times when we were waiting to exit,” Jaskier explained, craning his neck out of the window. “It’s doing 60 in the fast lane and it hasn’t overtaken anything for the last five miles despite having opportunity because it doesn’t want to get too close to us or risk going past. Take the next exit, if it follows us, you know I’m right.”

Geralt blinked at the spiel but still his eyes flicked to an approaching service station and he shrugged. He needed a pee anyway, and some fresh air wouldn’t go amiss.

He braked and exited the motorway onto the slip road, reducing his speed from eighty-plus miles per hour to a steady forty with such precision it threw Jaskier against his seatbelt and he had to grip the glove compartment before glaring at Geralt.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and his stomach dropped when he saw a light-blue _Ford_ turn onto the slip road without indicating, braking considerably more slowly than the traffic exiting behind it and forcing the red _Reno Cleo_ behind it to emergency break – as if the turn-off hadn’t been planned.

Keeping a level head, Geralt kept quiet as he pulled into the service station and parked in a secluded corner next to the side of a _Burger King_.

He killed the engine and looked at Jaskier. Jaskier looked worried.

Geralt pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and held it low against his thigh and reminded himself it was just a precaution.

“Stay here.” He opened the car door.

“But wait-”

“I wasn’t asking!” He growled and Jaskier shrank back in his seat.

Geralt put one foot out onto the concrete of the carpark before apparently deciding against it and turning back to Jaskier.

“It’s going to be fine.” He tried to sound remotely reassuringly before he frowned to himself and exited the vehicle, slamming the door behind him and leaving Jaskier alone.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped forward to the bricked wall of the _Burger King_ and his brain began to unhelpfully spew forth the menu from memory. He shook his head, slamming his hand against his forehead and hugging his legs.

He tried to calm himself, but he could feel his anxiety mounting with each passing minute that Geralt didn’t return. He careened his head to look out of the back window, but he couldn’t see Geralt, or the blue _Ford_ , anywhere.

His breathing began to come out in short, shallow bursts.

_Double cheeseburger with small fries, bacon double cheeseburger, four chicken nuggets, six chicken nuggets, mozzarella sticks…_

He cursed loudly, scratching at the bruises at his elbow. He couldn’t think straight because his brain wouldn’t shut up about fucking fast food. It was too loud; it was _too loud_. Why hadn’t Geralt come back? What if something had happened to him? _Oreo milkshake, Kitkat milkshake, diet coke, coke zero, sprite, fanta_. What if they were coming for him next?

Before he could fully start hyperventilating, he launched himself forward and began digging around his rucksack before his hand enclosed around the small baggie concealed within. He looked at the small amount of white powder and felt calmer just seeing it.

A tremor went through him and he glanced at Geralt’s door. The thought of the agent coming back and finding him shooting up in the car was enough to make his hands tremble. He knew he’d be out on his ass and at the mercy of the syndicate. Jaskier resolved, quickly, to run and find a bathroom in the services. He reasoned with himself that it would only take a couple of minutes and he’d be back before anyone noticed.

His mind made up, Jaskier tucked what remained of his stash into the front pocket of his jeans and grabbed his rucksack before opening the door. He was momentarily thankful that Geralt seemed to trust him not to lock him in like a child. An error of judgement on Geralt’s part, apparently.

He stepped into the sparsely populated carpark and kept his bag tight to his chest. The cool air of the midday sun was chilly against his bare forearms and he contemplated pulling his hoodie from his bag before shaking his head, he was wasting precious seconds he didn’t have. Instead, he looked around himself.

From the lack of cars to the brick-wall of the _Burger King_ , Jaskier quickly deduced that Geralt had parked them around the back of the services. It was probably a tactical move more than an accidental one to ensure they were as far away from civilians as possible.

Jaskier tried to rationalise that they still didn’t know for sure they were being followed, and everything was probably fine and Geralt had only gone to check it out as a precaution, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Jaskier had a sixth sense for bad things happening, it was either that or shit followed him around like he was cursed, and he knew that blue _Ford_ was following them. Besides, Geralt wouldn’t have even entertained it if he thought it wasn’t a possibility, right? Jaskier didn’t know the man but he could already tell he was forthright in every way.

He took off in a wide arc around the car park, searching for a way into the conglomerate of buildings that wasn’t solid wall. Soon enough he found a grassy pathway twisted against the side of the _Burger King_ and followed it.

It actually led to an enclosed picnicking area with yellowing, un-watered grass, vacant wooden benches and fast-food containers overflowing from the bins and littering the floor. There was a stench of sewage in the air that made Jaskier wrinkle his nose. That, coupled with the dull weather of the afternoon, meant the entire site was empty as people were probably eating indoors. Desperate, Jaskier decided it would have to do.

He dumped his bag between his legs and bent down to unzip it when he felt a broad hand enclose around his throat from behind and yank him upright.

Jaskier yelped in shock as he was thrown forward against one of the picnic benches. He landed awkwardly and painfully on the solid wood and groaned as he turned, his backside on the seat as his ribs groaned at him, to see the same bald man who had threatened him in his flat baring down on him with a snarl.

He shouted out and scrabbled backwards unthinkingly until he was on top of the bench, his fingernails catching on the splintering wood as he tried to get as far back from his attacker as possible. He couldn’t believe this was happening again. Except it wasn’t, really, because this time the bald man wasn’t alone.

Three men stood behind him. One was oriental like him, with his dark hair pulled high off of his face in a top knot, the other two were Caucasian, one young and clean shaven while the other was slightly older with a beard. They didn’t look particularly sinister as a group except for the fact they all had guns in their hands and death in their eyes.

Jaskier’s heart thumped in his throat as his hands gripped the wooden slates with all his strength. He was paralysed with fear and it never even occurred to him to try and run.

“You think you could run from us, kid?” The bald man, his attacker, sneered as he crowded Jaskier’s cowering form against the bench. “You think we didn’t have people watching you? Big mistake, because now no matter what you tell me, I’m still going to kill you.”

He ran the barrel of his gun over Jaskier’s lips and the metal was cold and unyielding. Jaskier cried out as tears bubbled in his eyes and then the gun was being pressed _into_ his mouth. He choked and sobbed as he felt the thrusting movement of the weapon between his lips. The bald man was laughing as if getting some perverse pleasure out of Jaskier’s suffering, or the humiliating act itself, or maybe both.

Jaskier’s eyes found the grey sky, trying to disassociate even now he knew the taste of death, but he kept his eyes open and he thought of him.

A punched-out groan caught his attention and the unyielding press of metal in his mouth was suddenly gone, leaving a glob of spittle dribbling down his chin in its wake. His gaze snapped back down to earth in time to see a bundle of limbs tussling in the grass. It didn’t take long for Geralt to get the upper-hand on the bald man and then his face was being pressed into the dirt with Geralt’s weight on top of him keeping him pinned with his arms pressed tight into the small of his back with one hand while his other held a gun to the other three.

An unfettered rush of hope flared in Jaskier’s stomach as he pushed himself up on top of the bench, he could still taste and feel the cold metal in his mouth even though it wasn’t there anymore, but the hope died as quickly as it had risen as the three men pulled guns on Geralt.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shrieked unthinkingly.

“You’re outnumbered, pig.” The bearded man sneered cockily, resting his gun almost gently between Geralt’s light eyebrows.

Jaskier may have been imagining it, because he was delirious with fear, but he was sure Geralt _smirked_.

Geralt’s gun arm swept wide, knocking the bearded man’s weapon from his grip before sweeping back just as quickly and firing. His bullet tore through the bearded man’s collarbone with a spray of blood and bone that made Jaskier’s stomach turn. He vomited instinctively down his front as the bearded man collapsed back onto the grass and screamed.

A volley of bullets rained from the two remaining men, the younger man and the topknot, and Jaskier screamed and threw himself off of the bench as his survival instinct finally kicked in. He crawled under the bench in time to see Geralt release the bald man and roll off of him, narrowly avoiding the bullets that embedded themselves mutely in the grass where Geralt had been knelt moments before.

They didn’t expect Geralt, such a hulking man, to move that swiftly and Geralt was on his feet before they had a chance to change tactics. He twisted and broke the arm of the topknot, his knuckles mincing his guts and sending him to the floor. The younger man landed a swift punch to Geralt’s kidney and the agent growled and turned, and the younger man’s shin snapped under Geralt’s foot.

Jaskier watched, enthralled, and appalled, as Geralt fought them both off simultaneously. It was like the man had a goddamn sixth sense, he knew when a punch was coming from behind and ducked out of the way and retaliated in a nanosecond. In less than a minute, the two men were shivering, bleeding wrecks at Geralt’s feet and Geralt stood straight as he breathed heavily, his already-bandaged hands bloodied and shaking.

The bald man stayed on the floor and rolled onto his back, grabbing a gun abandoned on the floor, the gun still laced with Jaskier’s spit, and he fired before Jaskier even had a chance to realise what was happening.

The bullet tore through the meat of Geralt’s shoulder and Jaskier clapped his hand over his mouth and gripped tightly as he screamed into his palm.

Geralt roared in pain and fury as he span on his foot to face his attacker, bending and retrieving his own gun from the ground and unloading two bullets precisely into his kneecaps. The bald man screamed in agony and the sharp _shatter_ of bone seemed to echo even in the open space.

Blood soaked the back of Geralt’s jacket but not the front, meaning the bullet was still buried somewhere inside his shoulder, but the lithe way the agent bent down and snatched the gun from the bald man’s hand and emptied the clip into the grass made it seem like he had no wound at all.

“Fuck you!” The bald man snarled, spittle flying from his mouth as he clutched his ruined legs to his body.

Geralt’s gun aimed at his forehead as his eyes _blazed_.

“Move an inch and I’ll put a bullet between your fucking eyes, I promise you that.”

He hesitated for a moment before he released his legs with a wince and held his arms above his head.

Geralt kept his gun level but he was wincing.

“Jaskier, you okay?” He called out gruffly, a pinch in his voice.

Jaskier crawled out from under the bench and tried to stand but he was shaking so hard he almost tumbled and had to grip the wood of the bench to keep himself upright. The ground was littered with wheezing, injured bodies and the sky was full of pained moans and the coppery tang of blood hung in the air stronger than the sewage.

“Y-yeah.” Jaskier finally managed. “Are you okay?”

“Call the police.” Was all he got in reply.

Jaskier blinked, dazed, but still managed to pull the _Samsung_ out of his pocket and dial 999.

…

Four hours later and the four members of the syndicate were in police custody. Well, they were in hospital, but they were also in police custody. Geralt had spent the entire time with the police and on the phone to MI6 but Jaskier hadn’t been privy to any of it.

Instead, he sat in a cosy waiting room in the police station while he waited for anything to happen. He was sitting on his hands, legs jiggling nervously against the floor, while a cold coffee sat beside him next to an unused shock blanket.

He still had what remained of ¼ gram of heroin in his front pocket and if anyone decided to search him, he knew he was fucking toast. He’d considered dumping it, or doing it, in one of the bathrooms but it was all he had left, and he didn’t want to be high right now. Correction: he very much wanted to be high right now, but he had to talk to Geralt first.

He wasn’t trembling because of withdrawal; he was trembling because he was _terrified_.

He’d almost died _again_ and no matter what he did he couldn’t shake the unwelcome feeling of that gun pressed against his lips no matter how much he clawed at them.

He’d been told by a paramedic that he was in shock. She’d been lovely, giving him a hot drink and a warm blanket but he’d ignored them both because no amount of comfort could change what had happened. That he’d nearly died and the only reason he hadn’t was because Geralt Rivia had saved him and taken down those four men right in front of him. The sound of bone shattering and flesh tearing made him wince even now and he could still smell the blood in the air as strongly as he could smell the crusted vomit down the front of his shirt.

The strangest thing for Jaskier was that he didn’t think he was scared of Geralt. He was a trained agent and Jaskier had made that quip about him killing people without thinking about the reality of it. If Geralt were a monster, he would have shot those men dead, not wounded them. The _reality_ was that Jaskier owed him his fucking life and he had no idea how he felt about that.

The door to the waiting room opened and Jaskier looked up as Geralt walked in. His suit jacket was slung over one arm and his white shirt was stained with blood. The acrid tang burrowed up Jaskier’s nostrils and he winced. He’d assumed Geralt would at least receive some medical attention for the hole in his shoulder.

Geralt had his phone pressed to his ear and was finishing his conversation as he stopped in front of Jaskier.

“Yeah, no he’s fine. Will do. By tonight. Yeah. Gotta go, bye.” He hung up and looked down at Jaskier. He looked pale and tired but _relieved_.

“Come on, we have to go.” He said, turning on his heel and walking out of the waiting room with swift strides and Jaskier had to hurry to keep up.

“Are we going to the hospital?” He asked as he followed Geralt through the corridors of the police station. He clenched his fists as he looked at the slick, dried blood on the back of Geralt’s shirt.

“Do you feel okay?” Geralt glanced over his shoulder to Jaskier.

Jaskier baulked as they reached the front entrance and walked outside of the station. It was nearly evening, and the sky was dark grey and unwelcome. The fresh air of the carpark sat cool against Jaskier’s skin as he stopped still and Geralt made a beeline for the _Alfa_ parked in a bay close by.

“For you!” Jaskier pressed, stunned at Geralt’s audacity, as he watched the agent fish his keys out of his jacket pocket with his good arm. The _Alfa’s_ lights flared brightly in the darkness as Geralt unlocked it. “You have a bullet in your shoulder.”

“No time.” Geralt replied gruffly as he opened the driver’s side door and threw his jacket inside. “I want you in Coventry tonight. We’ve got four of them in custody and this is close to turning into all out war. The faster you’re out of harm’s way, the better.”

Jaskier squinted.

“Do your bosses know you’re injured?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow in response and inclined his head to the car.

“Get in the car.”

Jaskier set his feet on the pavement and crossed his arms as he glared at Geralt.

“Oh, you staying?” Geralt asked sarcastically in response to Jaskier’s petulant display.

“I’m not going anywhere with you until you get looked at.” Jaskier’s voice was hard, pissed off, and his gaze bore into Geralt as if he could somehow goad him into action with that alone. Geralt was almost impressed.

“That’s cute, kid, but I’ll be fine.”

“You’re no good to me dead.”

Geralt’s hand hesitated on the door handle. Strangely enough, Jaskier’s comment reminded him of his session with Dr. Merigold. She’d said something similar, hadn’t she? That he was subconsciously trying to get himself killed as some twisted punishment for what had happened in Sudan. Was this one of those times? He touched his bad arm with his good one and winced at the pain. He’d been so fixated on the syndicate members it hadn’t even occurred to him to get himself looked at. Was he really that reckless and irresponsible that he would risk Jaskier’s life by being so injured he wouldn’t even be able to protect him if this happened again? He didn’t know the answer to that.

Jaskier crossed the carpark to Geralt and looked at him with a reproachful, almost _kind_ , look on his face.

“What?” Geralt asked, unprompted.

“I can do it.” Jaskier said quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“I know what to do. I can-” Jaskier bit his tongue before the words ‘look after you’ fell from his mouth and instead replaced them with “-patch you up, if you want.”

“Do I even want to know?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Probably not.” Jaskier blinked. “Please.”

There was something in Jaskier’s expression that Geralt couldn’t read and he had no idea why he was giving a shit all of a sudden, but his arm really was starting to hurt and he was only beginning to notice it. The pain grounded him somehow, as if popping the bubble he’d been walking around in and bringing him back to earth.

“Fine.” Geralt desisted with a grunt. “Whatever you say, boss. Now get in the car?”

That seemed to satisfy Jaskier and he clambered in his own side of the vehicle. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the sudden spring in his step and wondered if he’d picked up the wrong guy in the waiting room.

Geralt sunk into the driver’s side and rested his hands against the steering wheel and it was only when his scabbing knuckles came in to view that it hit him.

“You don’t have to feel bad.” He told the windscreen. “About those maniacs and what happened. It’s my job.”

“I shouldn’t have left the car.”

Geralt turned to him, floored by those wide, nervous eyes looking right at him and so fucking grateful Jaskier was still sitting beside him after what had happened.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life. “I’m starting to fear insubordination is going to be a theme with you.” He deflated and his voice was perilously close to amused.

Geralt was certain he imagined it, _certain_ , but it looked like the shadow of what could only be described as a smile fell over Jaskier’s lips.


	5. needle and thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Massive thank you to everyone for all the comments and kudos and amazing support. I know this fic is very heavy and dark and an incredibly slow burn so I can’t thank you enough. All my love <3 as for this chapter, it contains some very graphic and gory imagery, don’t try at home, kids!

Chapter Five

_needle and thread_

They drove for another half-an-hour before it was so dark that the _Alfa’s_ headlights were the only thing illuminating the road in front. They pulled into the first _Travelodge_ they saw along the A40. It was a run-down building that stood out garish and purple against the brick industrial estate it sat in but despite its lack of appeal, the car park was stuffed full and it took Geralt three goes around before he found a parking space.

He sat in the car alone, drumming the fingers of his good hand on the steering wheel as he kept a trained eye on Jaskier, illuminated as he was in the brightly lit reception. As much as Geralt didn’t want to let the kid out of his sight again, they’d both mutually decided that the last thing the staff needed was to see Geralt covered in blood. Jaskier had agreed to pay for their rooms with a surprising amount of ease and Geralt comforted himself with the sight of the boy stood stiff as he waited for their keys to be issued.

They’d paid for two separate rooms, room 36 on the second floor and room 4 on the ground. It took three tries with the key card to open room 4 and Jaskier actually grunted as he shoved the stiff door wide and stood back to let Geralt in first.

The agent rolled his eyes at such unnecessary and unanticipated mollycoddling but walked in without complaint. In all honesty, he was too sore to argue.

It was a small hotel room with a neatly made double bed dressed with a starchy white duvet and fluffy pillows. At the far end of the room was a door which, presumably, led to an ensuite bathroom and opposite the bed stood a wooden cabinet on top of which sat a tray of tea and coffee. An outdated television was affixed to the wall above it.

Jaskier flicked the light switch by the door and the lights turned on with a faint hum. They were wall lights, one by the door and two by the bed, which served to bath the unassuming room in a muted glow rather than a harsh glare.

Jaskier locked the door behind him and crossed to the bed, he dumped his rucksack on the floor with little care and the plastic bag in his hand onto the duvet. As soon as he was unladen, he turned to Geralt before turning right back as the tips of his ears burnt bright red.

Geralt had pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his white shirt and slowly peeled the ruined fabric from his torso. His soft groans filled the quiet room and mingled with the quiet buzz from the lights that was slowly disappearing from both of their notice as he cracked the dried blood at his shoulder to slip the offending article from his body and dump it straight in the waste bin.

Jaskier contemplated leaving the room and giving him some privacy but quickly decided against it. He’d be seeing a lot more of Geralt in the next few minutes and he wanted – _needed_ , he quickly corrected – Geralt to trust him for this to go as smoothly as possible, not lose faith in him because he’d blushed at watching the man getting undressed. He knew Geralt had enough doubts about him and his _lifestyle_ as it was and this felt like an opportunity to prove himself as more than the weak incompetent who’d hidden under a bench as Geralt had been shot.

So instead of leaving, he busied himself with unpacking the carrier bag on the bed.

They’d stopped off at a twenty-four hour supermarket on the search for a motel and had bought some supplies for the rough night ahead including, but not limited to, a couple of meal deals and the cheapest bottle of red wine Geralt could get his hands on. They’d bought a new shirt for Geralt (Jaskier had dumped his vomit-soaked one in a bin and changed into a fresh one from his rucksack in the supermarket toilet) alongside a myriad of unofficial medical supplies including gauze, bandages, antibiotic cream, sterilisation saline, dental floss, tweezers and a sewing kit. It wasn’t the best first aid kit Jaskier had ever worked with, but it would have to do. It was safe to say they’d received some strange looks from the cashier.

Jaskier heard another soft groan from behind him and took that moment to steal into the bathroom. He steadily and methodically sterilised the tweezers and the most appropriately curved needle he could find in the limited sewing kit as best he could before he washed his hands clean and filled a bowl with warm water, grabbed a towel from the rack and went back into the hotel room.

Geralt was sat on the edge of the bed. He had his hair down for the first time since Jaskier had met him and it was longer than Jaskier had realised, falling in white, feathery strands down his back. Geralt was also now naked from the waist up and leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees which presumably was to take some of the weight off of his injured shoulder but all it really did was accentuate just how muscular he really was.

Geralt was a big man, that was obvious even in his dark suits, but disrobed he was _something else_. His biceps were mountainous, his torso was thick and grooved with abdominal muscles so defined it was like they’d been carved there with a chisel. His back, the part not coated in dried blood, was taut and bowed like a fleshy valley and his entire body was littered with scars that were aged and faded and sitting pale and milky against his skin.

Jaskier had never seen anyone like Geralt before, someone who wore their trauma on their skin as openly as he did. Jaskier knew, _immediately_ , that his man had known great suffering and he sat braced and ready to undergo some more.

“You going to stand there all night?” Geralt asked gruffly. His eyes were on the floor and his expression pinched. Evidently the pain of his wound was beginning to affect even the most seasoned agent.

“Did you take the painkillers?” Jaskier asked as he put everything he was carrying down on the bedside table.

Geralt grunted at the half-empty bottle of wine by his feet and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“That’s going to fuck up your blood.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Geralt replied, wincing. “It numbs the pain I don’t give a fuck what else it does.”

Jaskier didn’t respond except for to pass the paracetamol packet to Geralt wordlessly. It was meagre pain relief, but it was the best Jaskier could do away from his dealer. Geralt refused the packet and Jaskier fixed him with a dithering look.

Geralt tried to fight him with a glare before he winced and sighed.

“Okay, fine. Give them here.”

Geralt popped the meagre pain relief and downed it with a gulp of wine and Jaskier almost smirked at the human devastation Geralt became the minute he was out of his suit. Geralt drank with measured, steady glugs and Jaskier watched bob of his neck as the liquid travelled down his throat. Jaskier followed the steady stream with his eyes unthinkingly to the dip of Geralt’s clavicle and the heavy stretch of his pectoral muscles and the small dusting of light hair on his chest. A faded tattoo of a wolf’s head, howling at a moon that wasn’t there, sat on his collarbone.

“I’m, um, going to get up on the bed behind you.” Jaskier said. “I think that’ll be easier.”

Geralt nodded his assent before his eyes slid back to the floor. He looked almost bored as if wholly unperturbed by what was about to happen to him, or maybe so disassociated from pain it was easy to accept.

Jaskier climbed onto the bed behind Geralt and the mattress dipped under their twin weights as he settled himself back on his ankles. Sitting practically kneeling behind Geralt gave him a height advantage and he could look down on his injured shoulder with ease.

Geralt’s left shoulder blade was covered in dried blood that spiralled out from a small dark cavern of the entry wound, but that wasn’t the only thing that caught Jaskier’s attention.

The entire bottom half of the agent’s back was a long, thick scar reaching across from one hip to the other like someone had tried to slice him in half. It was jagged and purple, angry and fresh, and Jaskier near-gasped at the absolute devastation Geralt wore on his skin.

“Problem?” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped away from the scar and it was almost a mercy. He didn’t know what _monster_ that could do another human, but it made Geralt’s treatment of the syndicate members look like child’s play.

“No.” Jaskier replied, forcing his attentions back to Geralt’s shoulder blade.

Jaskier ghosted his hand over the wound and felt the heat of it against his palm. He frowned. The last thing he wanted to do was dislodge the blot clot already formed in the small hole, but the bullet was still in there and he needed to get it out as soon as possible. Geralt was nothing short of _lucky_ that it had missed his bone and Jaskier all but prayed that the bullet was still intact inside him. If it was fragmented, then they were in trouble.

Jaskier retrieved the towel he’d procured and dipped it in the bowl of warm water on the bedside cabinet before bringing the now damp fabric to Geralt’s wound. He wrung the towel out over Geralt’s back and the water ran down the agent’s spine in red trickles.

Geralt hissed and jerked forward as if trying to instinctively escape the spray of water.

“Sorry.” Jaskier mumbled.

“S’fine.” Geralt replied through gritted teeth.

Jaskier soaked the towel and ran the water down Geralt’s back again, letting it dampen the duvet beneath them. Geralt’s pained reaction at just the trickle of water made Jaskier want to avoid touching him with the towel at all, but he knew he had to.

“If I’m too hard you have to tell me.” Jaskier muttered quietly. “I might forget you’re here.”

Geralt snorted and Jaskier used it as a distraction to press the wet towel to Geralt’s shoulder blade to wipe the rest of the blood away. Geralt shivered under him. it was a bizarre thing, really, to have such a strong body quivering under the barest ministrations of his hands.

When the pulled the towel away, the clot came with it. It was thick and spongey in texture and almost black against the white towel. Fresh, scarlet blood dribbled from the hole left behind.

Jaskier wrung the towel out over the bowl and watched in fascination as droplets of watery blood stained the water red before he re-wet it and brought it back to the fresh blood pouring down Geralt’s back. The agent was completely silent but the nerves under his skin were jumping as if on their own accord and Jaskier couldn’t imagine what sort of pain he must have been in right now, and he dare not ask. Geralt didn’t need sympathy, he needed Jaskier to get this done as quickly as possible.

Jaskier’s next wipe caught a portion of Geralt’s long hair and he frowned guiltily as the light strands dyed pink with blood.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate before he was sweeping Geralt’s hair over his right shoulder, his fingertips grazing his skin and his palm ghosting across the back of Geralt’s neck. He saw the shiver that went through Geralt rather than heard it and he frowned; certain he must have been far enough away from the wound site that he wasn’t causing him any pain.

A few gentle wipes with the wet towel later, just when soft mewls were beginning to escape Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier satisfied that Geralt’s wound site was clean enough that he could proceed unhindered.

He left the bloody towel in the bowl of rapidly cooling water and instead picked up the tweezers. He brought the cleaned metal to Geralt’s open wound, still steadily weeping blood, and narrowed his eyes as the flesh in front of him turned from a person to a project. Geralt was just another I.D he was working on or a piece of software he was trying to hack, still –

“This is going to hurt.”

He didn’t sound apologetic, just focused. Geralt appreciated that.

Geralt felt the sharp dig of flat metal into his open wound and he shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down hard with a groan. He tried to remind himself that he’d endured a lot worse than this in his life, it was just another terrorist trying to kill him, or a syndicate member trying to get information out of him, or one of Colin Devenere’s sadistic little games when he was bored of an evening…a tremor of panic shot through Geralt and he gripped his own knee to try and calm himself.

Jaskier didn’t speak again as he dug around in Geralt’s shoulder with short, probing strokes that lit painful fires under his skin. Then Jaskier’s free hand was gripping Geralt’s right shoulder, his fingers digging into the meat there as a way to steady himself. He probably didn’t notice he was doing it but Geralt did. The agent breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden warm pressure on his skin – it wasn’t comforting so much as it was _grounding_ and he shuddered before letting go of his own knee. When Jaskier probed a little deeper into his torn flesh with the point of the tweezers, the fresh wave of pain was easier to accept.

It wasn’t long until the mounting torment brought tears to Geralt’s eyes no matter how tight the hand on his shoulder was. When he was close to regretting this decision, to begging Jaskier to stop, the metal sharply retracted from his back with a _whump_ of pressure and Geralt gurgled as he felt blood pouring fresh from his wound.

An unyielding, heavy pressure was forced against his back as Jaskier pressed something dry against his shoulder blade and applied pressure to stem the fresh bleeding. Geralt grunted as he was forced forward and he had to grasp his thighs for support. It was easy to forget that Jaskier was still a six-foot man and was undoubtably going to be very strong.

“Did you get it?” Geralt’s voice came out more strained than he was expecting.

“Yes.” Jaskier replied. “It’s intact, no shrapnel.”

Geralt’s eyes rolled in relief and the pressure of Jaskier pressing the towel into his back was oddly…comforting? Still, the pain was there and growing more intense with each passing second.

“I thought you didn’t like touching people.” He joked. It wasn’t supposed to be a dig, it was a poor attempt to distract himself from the discomfort.

“It’s fine.” Jaskier replied without missing a beat. “You’re okay.”

They stayed like that for a few long moments with Jaskier applying pressure to Geralt’s wound and Geralt breathing steadily and gripping his knees for support.

When Jaskier took the towel away, it was stained with blood, and the barest trickle was leaving the jagged but relatively small hole left there.

“I’m going to sew you up.” Jaskier said robotically. “Unless you want a break?”

Geralt shook his head and immediately regretted it when it caused a red-hot poker of pain to shoot up his neck and disperse heat at the base of his skull.

“No, I’m good.”

Jaskier left the bed to wash his hands and retrieve the sterilized needle before threading it with dental floss. His hands were steady as he pinched the flesh of Geralt’s wound together and pierced the skin with the same precise dexterity as he would pierce his own.

Geralt let out a soft groan as Jaskier drew the floss through his flesh and pulled. The white thread came out of the other side of Geralt’s skin sparkling red. Jaskier was glad Geralt couldn’t see. It was odd to consider that earlier that day the sight of that syndicate member getting shot had made him vomit but now, literally sewing flesh back together, he was calm. He supposed it was because he knew he was helping, rather than hurting, Geralt. It relaxed him.

Jaskier worked tightly and quickly and in under five minutes, Geralt had a relatively neatly stitched wound where the bullet hole used to be.

Jaskier spread some anti-bacterial cream over the wound before pressing a fresh piece of gauze to the stitching. The gauze had a transparent, sticky outline so it stayed in place when Jaskier left it.

He regarded it for a moment before blinking and grabbing a fresh pack of bandages and ripping them open.

He hopped down from the bed and wrapped the long white fabric around Geralt’s torso, circling under his right arm and kneeling in front of him as he pulled the bandage over his left pectoral and pulled it taut, tying a neat, tight knot just below the wolf’s head.

It was the first time Geralt had seen him and the look on Jaskier’s face was one of intense concentration. When he tied the knot, his hands didn’t shake once.

Once satisfied that the bandage was secure enough, Jaskier let the knot fall against Geralt’s chest and glanced up at him. Geralt threw his gaze aside and hoped Jaskier hadn’t caught him staring.

“How do you feel?” Jaskier asked.

“Fine.” Geralt replied with a dry mouth. “I’m fine. That was, um, thank you.”

Jaskier blinked before putting his hands on his own knees and pushing himself up into a standing position and towering over the agent. That was when Geralt noticed that Jaskier had his blood on his hands. He didn’t know why that bothered him.

Geralt attempted to sit back a little on the bed and he winced as he did so. His back was stiff and hindered even more so by the bandage pulled taut around his torso. He breathed heavily and his stomach rolled and for a moment he was legitimately afraid he was going to be sick.

Jaskier passed him the pill packet and Geralt shook his head.

“I just had some.”

“It’s not going to kill you.”

Normally Geralt would have challenged him but right now he was too sore to argue. Instead, he took the pill packet and swallowed another two down. It took him a few moments to register the glass of water Jaskier was holding under his nose. Geralt took it silently and noted Jaskier’s red fingerprints imprinted on the glass.

As Geralt swallowed the water down, he tugged absentmindedly at the knot resting just below the wolf tattoo and contemplated asking Jaskier how he knew how to stitch up wounds but Jaskier beat him to it with the questions.

“When did you get that?” He asked. Geralt looked up.

Jaskier had backed off a little bit until he was leant against the wooden cabinet beneath the television. His hands were propped awkwardly behind himself on the wood in a position that couldn’t have been comfortable. It was almost like he was afraid that if he put his whole weight on the cabinet then it would collapse.

“Sorry?” Geralt asked dumbly.

“The wolf.” Jaskier clarified, nodding to Geralt’s chest.

“Oh.” Geralt’s fingers settled on the faded wolf’s head while his eyes stayed forward. He knew exactly where it was on his body without looking. “It was a nickname I had in training. They called me _white wolf_ , you know, because of my hair. My colleague dared me to get it when we were drunk, and I did.”

Jaskier almost smiled at that.

“Did you always want to be an agent?”

Geralt was surprised at Jaskier’s sudden curiosity but still he snorted in response.

“No.” He answered with a humourless laugh. “I don’t think anyone _wants_ to be an agent.”

“Then why?”

Geralt didn’t know if it was the pain, or the wine, or the pain relief, or maybe a mixture of all three, but he answered Jaskier honestly.

“I used to box in the children’s home and then for school, I was pretty good at it.” He turned his hands over as he spoke, as if recalling the memory of each scar on his damaged knuckles. Even now, he noted the malformed bone where he’d broken and re-broken his knuckles over and over again in his formative years. “Vesemir was my coach and it kind of happened from there.”

He let his hands drop and glanced up at Jaskier. He was looking at him with a cock of the head and a pinched expression. His entire posture had changed against the cabinet, he was leant back on his elbows with one leg crossed over the other, as if he’d relaxed down during the conversation.

The muted light in the small, over-hot hotel room had created a private atmosphere like they were hidden, or like they were the only two people in the world having this conversation. For the first time in their acquaintance, Geralt felt like he was talking to Jaskier; that Jaskier was in the room with him and not stuck in his own head.

It still didn’t explain how Geralt had earned the look Jaskier was giving him right now. It was a look of confusion and sadness.

“Children’s home?” Jaskier finally asked. He wasn’t posing it as a question, or at least it was a question he was asking himself. Still Geralt felt compelled to answer.

“My mother left me there when I was six.” Geralt replied matter-of-factly as if it had happened to someone else. Truthfully, he’d rattled off this story to so many different people for so many different reasons that he was used to it. Being an orphan made him interesting, somehow. Or maybe it made him a cautionary tale. “She died not long after.”

“And your dad?”

“No idea.”

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier replied conventionally and Geralt would have shrugged if he could.

“It’s fine, it was a long time ago.”

“How did she die?” Jaskier asked with a crease in his forehead.

Geralt found himself smiling at the morbid question because Jaskier was so out of tune with reality and with social constructs that he didn’t fuck around with sympathy, he asked because he was curious. It was forthright and it Geralt recognised some of himself there.

But then he considered the answer and the warm feeling in his gut was replaced with hollow dread and he couldn’t look at Jaskier as he answered.

“Heroin overdose.”

The silence spoke for itself and soon enough Jaskier was pushing himself away from the cabinet.

“You’re finished.” He told the floor. “I mean, you should be able to move around now.”

“Thank you.” Geralt replied measuredly as the bubble around them burst.

Geralt stood stiffly and reached for the replacement shirt they’d bought. It was a white button down with long sleeves. It was nothing remotely as expensive or fitted as Geralt was used to wearing but it would do. The starch was stiff as he pulled it awkwardly over his arms and he winced as every movement sent jolts of pain through his body. He considered asking Jaskier to help him, but he didn’t, instead he turned his back on him as he dressed.

Jaskier glanced at Geralt’s back furtively and he froze. Geralt’s aggressive scar glared at him once more and Jaskier almost shuddered at the sight of it. Then Geralt pulled his shirt on and the scar was gone.

Geralt turned to face him before Jaskier could convince himself to look away, Geralt saw the appalled look on Jaskier’s face and surprised the younger man by smiling shallowly.

“It’s okay.” Geralt assured him, buttoning his shirt over the bandage crossing his chest and pulling his hair free from the collar. “It’s bad, I know. You can ask about it.”

Jaskier shook his head as he dropped his gaze to his hands and began fiddling with the hem of his shirt exactly as he’d done in the flat when he’d been scared before.

Geralt’s adam’s apple bobbed.

“You don’t have to be scared of me.” He said earnestly.

“I’m not.” Jaskier answered immediately. There was something strangely _quiet_ about this evening and it had given Jaskier a chance to think. He wasn’t scared of Geralt, not the one thing that was keeping him alive in this chaos.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, “for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.” Geralt replied. “Nothing is going to happen to you, I promise.”

Jaskier smiled. It was a small, shy smile and the first one Geralt had ever seen. It changed Jaskier’s whole face. His eyes slackened and he looked less tired somehow.

“I’ll take the other room.” Geralt said quickly and gruffly before he turned for the door. “I’ll let you get settled and come and pick you up in the morning.”

“Okay.” Jaskier replied quietly, running his hands over his thighs.

Geralt hesitated at the door and turned back, his hand still clenched around the handle. Jaskier hadn’t moved but his hands were roaming all over himself. The kid might have meant it when he’d said he wasn’t scared of him anymore, but Geralt had definitely frightened him with his mother. Why the fuck had he said it?

“You’re not a lost cause, kid.” He said with a frown before he cursed himself and stole from the room before he could make things worse.

Jaskier barely heard the door shut over the sounds of his own quiet mumbling.


	6. sunny side up

Chapter Six

_sunny side up_

Geralt awoke the next day in pain and groaned at the discomfort blossoming from his back.

He’d slept on his front because it was the easiest and most comfortable position for him with his bullet wound, but he wasn’t accustomed to such a sleeping position and he noticed a strain in his neck muscles when he tried to move his head.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position slowly, one arm wrapping protectively around his torso as he did so as if to keep himself in one piece as he moved.

It took Geralt a few moments to get his bearings. He looked at his unfamiliar surroundings before remembering he was in a hotel room. He groaned and rubbed his face. Among other things, the initial twinges of a hangover from the bottle of wine he’d downed the night before were beginning to stab at his eyes.

Geralt stood stiffly while his back complained at him and crossed to the cabinet where he’d dumped the rest of paracetamol from the night before. The half-empty pill packet winked up at him.

He was dressed only in his black boxers and the stifled air in the small room was cold on his bare skin. He padded barefoot to the bathroom and grimaced at the cold tiles under his feet and drank straight from the tap to take the pain relief.

He stayed in the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door behind him, and unwrapped the bandage from around his shoulders. The knot at the front was tied so tightly it took him a while to undo the damn thing. He was close to just ripping the offending fabric from his skin when he finally felt the fabric unravel under his fingers and he unwound the bandage from his body and left it in a heap on the counter by a basin.

He managed to awkwardly manoeuvre himself so he was stood with his back to the large mirror above the basin and he peered over his shoulder, ignoring the pain in his shoulder blade as he used his good arm to peel the square piece of gauze back a fraction of an inch. It tugged on the microscopic hairs on his skin, but he didn’t wince.

The wound was small, smaller than Geralt was expecting. It had four or five dried and bloody stitches neatly threaded through it. The entire wound site was a healthy shade of red and Geralt hummed happily to himself before he pressed the gauze back down and held it tight for a moment. He didn’t reapply the bandage, instead leaving it on the countertop as he turned on the walk-in shower and slid his boxers down his thighs as he waited for a moment for the water to warm up. He left his underwear on the floor as steam slowly began to fill the bathroom and he stepped under the spray.

Geralt tried his best to keep his shoulder from the spray but it was hard to concentrate when he felt the hot water drizzle over his worn and tired body. It was like being on the receiving end of a very warm hug and he actually groaned as he let his head tip back and felt his hair wet and stick to his face.

His left arm was heavy and numb and it was especially painful to lift his hands to wash his hair but after a few minutes the pain relief began to kick in and the warm water over his skin was like a soothing balm and he found himself sighing.

Geralt stayed in the shower for longer than necessary before he stepped out and towelled himself dry. He pulled on his underwear and his trousers and was towel drying his wet hair as he put his phone on the counter and pressed _speakerphone_.

“ _Geralt_.” Vesemir’s voice rang around the room as soon as he picked up. “ _Where are you?_ ”

“A Travelodge off the A40.” Geralt admitted. “It’s taking a bit longer than I anticipated to get there.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Geralt winced, not from pain, but fear of the bollocking he knew he was going to get.

“I, err, kind of, got shot yesterday.”

“ _What?!_ ” Vesemir exclaimed. “ _Why didn’t you tell me?_ ”

“I forgot.”

The line went quiet and Geralt could _hear_ Vesemir’s unamused expression through the phone.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” Vesemir finally asked if somewhat stiffly.

“I’m fine, I…it’s sorted now, don’t worry. Any news on Eskel and Lambert?” He asked, quickly changing the subject.

“ _They’re still in Sudan_.” Vesemir admitted. “ _Trailing Jack Karraway, but as of now there’s no sign of John Devenere_.”

Annoyance flared in Geralt’s gut like heartburn. It wasn’t that didn’t trust Eskel and Lambert, because he did, in fact if he were indisposed, they would be the only two he’d let take over from him, but he _wasn’t_ indisposed. More than that, he’d been a part of that world for over a year and he could predict the movements of John and Colin Devenere, and Jack Karraway, with his eyes closed. He would have seen something other agents would have surely missed. He knew if he were in Sudan, he would have found John and killed him by now. He didn’t say any of this, instead he pushed it right down to the pit of his stomach where it stayed.

“And the four syndicate members from yesterday?” He asked instead.

“ _Well, they’re still alive_.” A ghost of a chuckle came from the phone.

“Shame.” Geralt grunted, folding the towel and leaving it on the cabinet before he took the phone back to the bed and sunk down awkwardly. He tried not to groan too audibly lest Vesemir hear him.

“ _As soon as they’re released from hospital, they’ll be interrogated_.” Vesemir had carried on as Geralt had moved about the room. “ _If nothing else we’ve at least got them as leverage to use against Li and the rest of them to guarantee no attacks are made against MI6.”_

“Are you sure that won’t piss them off?” Geralt asked. “Damien Li might sell his own men out to guarantee his safety. I didn’t get the impression they were a particularly moral bunch.”

The image of the bald syndicate member shoving his gun in Jaskier’s mouth swam into Geralt’s head and sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t just the threat of death that bothered him so much, but it was as if they were humiliating him before they killed him, reminding him just how weak he was and how strong they were. Contrary to Jaskier’s earlier opinion of him, Geralt did know the difference between right and wrong and he knew the difference between people who broke the law and criminals. It wasn’t money the syndicate wanted, it was power, it was monopoly. They threw their own weight around like they had any, that much was obvious enough already, and they used threats and violence to try and coerce Geralt, Jaskier and even MI6 itself to see them as the threat they wanted to be. If they were worth shit, they would have killed Geralt and Jaskier the minute they had the chance. Geralt certainly didn’t intend to give them another chance.

“ _Hmm_.” Geralt could hear Vesemir’s shrug. “ _I don’t pretend to know the inner workings of psychopaths. I’ll leave that to the interrogation_.”

Geralt nodded in agreement despite the fact Vesemir couldn’t see him.

“What can I do to help?” He asked. He liked this, being able to slip back into his agent role and do something potentially useful for the first time in months. It took his mind off of the pain in his back, and the Sudan-shaped hole in his stomach. His mind was already coming up with ways of tracking down Li and the rest of the syndicate.

“ _Your most important mission right now is to keep the kid safe and get him to the safehouse in one piece_.” Vesemir reminded him. “ _It’s been proven, I think, that he needs protecting_.”

Geralt’s shoulder twinged as if in agreement yet still he frowned. He hadn’t been expecting the head of the Anti-Terrorism Task Force to put the brakes on his mental planning so quickly.

“If you need me in, Vesemir, it’s fine. I can do more.”

“ _Okay, first of all-_ “ Vesemir began, “ _you have a bullet hole, and second of all, imagine if you leave and come back to London and you find out Jaskier was killed_.”

Geralt felt stunned like he’d just walked face-first into a brick wall. He’d forgotten, just for a moment, what he was here to do, and guilt rocked through him.

The mention of Jaskier’s name didn’t bring the nervous, jittering addict to his mind as it had done before. Instead, he got images of wide eyes and small, hesitant smiles.

“Nothing is going to happen to him.” He sounded almost _angry_ as his words escaped him with a soft growl, as if Vesemir posed the very threat he suggested.

“ _I know_.” Vesemir sounded amused. “ _That’s why you’re there_.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“Right, because I’m so famous for keeping people alive.” He had no idea what had prompted such an acidic remark. He was thinking of Renfri. He tried to recall her face but all he could see were the photos of her mangled body that they’d never recovered. Something stuck in his throat and he punched his hand into the bed. The _whump_ somehow soothed him as he fought to push the images from his mind. He’d _never_ see Jaskier like that. He _couldn’t_.

Vesemir had started talking again but Geralt was too busy with his eyes tightly shut, trying in vain to fight off the waves of panic thrumming through him at the thought of her, of death and guns and spit and _blood_.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and tipped his head back.

Somewhere through the fog, he could hear Vesemir’s voice, muted though it was.

“… _but you know as well as I do that the reason you’re one of my best agents isn’t because you’re any better at the job than anyone else. Losing Renfri broke all of us, and you blame yourself, not because it was your fault, but because you have a good heart. We’re going to take this syndicate down, one way or another, just as we’re going to find the Devenere brothers, but I’m willing to stake my reputation on the fact that you won’t sacrifice his life to do so_.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it? Vesemir had seen right through him like he was made of glass as he’d always done. Geralt half-knew he was pseudo-replacing the Devenere’s with the syndicate and he was trying to recklessly go after them to distract himself from not being in Sudan where he wanted to be. But this was serious now. They weren’t the same and Jaskier was still alive. Going after the syndicate today wouldn’t bring Renfri back, but it might mean losing Jaskier. Jaskier trusted him to keep safe, Geralt could tell by the way the kid was relaxing around him now and regardless, Geralt had promised to do so. The guilt he’d felt before intensified for even entertaining the idea of choosing the dead over the living and for forgetting the difference between right and wrong for the sake of his own desire for revenge.

“I’ll get him to the safe house.” Geralt promised. “You can count on it.”

“ _Good lad_.” Vesemir said. “ _And no more hidden bullet wounds, okay?_ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“ _And what about Jaskier, is he okay?_ ”

Geralt let out a long breath. ‘Okay’ was a loaded word when it came to Jaskier. He didn’t have any injuries if that was what Vesemir meant, which it probably was, but Geralt couldn’t help considering the wider context of the question.

He thought about that look in Jaskier’s wide eyes that was always there, like he was so much older than he was, like he was always thinking deep, dark things Geralt couldn’t know. He thought of the way he always scratched the bloodied bruises on his arm absentmindedly, as if the only peace he could find was when he was numb, when he was killing himself.

Geralt had known how his mother had died since it happened and somehow, he’d always thought that he’d know what it looked like, but he was wrong. Seeing it in the flesh with Jaskier prodded something sore deep inside of himself because now he felt like he knew how frightened and vulnerable she must have been. The tragic reverse of that was that Geralt knew some things Jaskier didn’t, he knew exactly how Jaskier’s story would end before Jaskier did.

“ _Geralt?_ ” Vesemir prompted.

Geralt shook his head as if to clear it and regretted it when his shoulder twinged in complaint.

“This kid…” He struggled to find the words. “He’s troubled.”

“ _I knew this troubled kid once_ ,” Vesemir said sagely. “ _Orphaned, anger issues, he made me want to tear my hair out half of the time, but I never gave up on him_.”

Geralt smiled shallowly.

“He sounds like he was a little shit.”

“ _He still is_.”

…

Geralt knocked softly on the heavy hotel door and stepped back a few paces.

Several long minutes passed before the lock clicked open and the door was pulled back. Jaskier peered out at him and visibly relaxed when he saw Geralt stood there.

“I don’t think the syndicate would knock.” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier blushed and pulled the door back fully. He was wearing a battered t-shirt and dark boxer shorts but nothing else. His bare legs were long, milky-white and covered in dark hair.

Geralt averted his gaze as quickly as he’d looked and swallowed.

“Get dressed.” He said stiffly to the door. “We’ve got to get on the road.”

He turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor. Jaskier watched, perplexed, before he shut the door again.

…

Not an hour later and they had checked out of the Travelodge and were speeding down the road.

Geralt’s shoulder twinged under his suit jacket but he ignored it. Jaskier didn’t ask how he was feeling but he kept glancing over at him as if he were building himself up to ask the question.

Despite Geralt’s apparent flustered urgency to leave the Travelodge and get to Coventry, he didn’t stay on the road for very long. He turned off into the car park of a _Little Chef_ , reversed into a parking bay and killed the engine.

Jaskier glanced out of the window and around the packed car park hesitantly. Bad things always seemed to happen to them in car parks.

“Why are we stopping?” He asked.

“Breakfast.” Geralt said as he pulled up the handbrake with a metallic _crank_. “Come on.”

Geralt was out of the _Alfa_ with more finesse than a man with fresh stitches in his back should have had and it took Jaskier’s body a moment to catch up with his mind as Geralt stepped out of his usual behaviour and took such a solid left-turn into normalcy.

Jaskier clambered out of the car quickly, pulling a hoodie from his rucksack as he did so and took a moment by the door to slip it over his short-sleeved t-shirt so no one would see the dark marks on his arms. He didn’t care who knew or what they thought of him, but it was the attention he wanted to avoid.

Jaskier could see the inside of the _Little Chef_ through the large windows. It was crowded with people sat at every table and a queue of people stood waiting for the till and a lump caught in Jaskier’s throat. Just the thought of going inside such a crowded, _noisy_ place filled Jaskier with a familiar dread. Still, he found himself walking inside. Geralt was in there, and at least with Geralt, he knew he was safe.

The noise hit him first. It was a solid wall of chatter and chairs scraping over tiles and the clink of cutlery and ceramic mugs on wooden tabletops. He hugged his arms to his body as he shrunk back and was almost out of the door just as quick.

He passed a table meant for six with more people than that crowded around it and a volley of children all under five swinging off of the backs of chairs and throwing food at each other while their parents ignored them.

Jaskier winced as he scurried past them and wondered why the hell anyone would find this relaxing or enjoyable when they could be at home where it was safe and quiet.

He spotted Geralt at a small, two-seater table near the centre of the dining area. He wasn’t exactly hard to miss. He was tall even when sitting, his shoulders were the length and breadth of a football field and he was wearing a striking black suit and his equally striking light hair was pulled off of his face into a simple ponytail. He was earning looks from the surrounding tables and Jaskier momentarily wondered how Geralt even managed to work undercover. He was too striking, too attractive, too much of a presence in the world.

Jaskier sat down opposite Geralt and the agent didn’t even look up from the menu he was perusing.

“You took your time.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have run off and left me.” Jaskier replied instinctively. “I could have died on my way to the table.”

Geralt looked up at him and Jaskier couldn’t help pursing his lips together in amusement. Geralt shook his head before he looked back down at his menu.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

Geralt’s eyes flicked up to him again.

“You’ve got to eat something.”

Jaskier merely shook his head, a nervous smile sitting on his lips and Geralt didn’t say anything.

A middle-aged woman with long, dark hair, a bright smile and a waitress uniform stopped by their table and looked between you.

“Morning, darlings. What can I get you both?”

Jaskier hunched his shoulders and stared down at the laminated tablecloth.

“J-just black coffee, please.” He said quietly.

“Same for me.” Geralt awarded her with a smile so big it was like he was making up for Jaskier’s lack of civility. “And two Olympic breakfasts.”

Jaskier’s social anxiety forbade him from piping up and cancelling the order and Geralt gave him a smug look that earned him a glare in response.

By the time Jaskier was fidgeting around a black coffee with too many sugars, the waitress returned with two fry-ups with enough fried potatoes to sink the _Titanic_.

“Thank you.” Geralt responded with another dazzling smile and she blushed as she put the plates in front of them and disappeared off.

“Must be convenient, being able to switch the charm on and off like a light-switch.” Jaskier hummed as he brought his coffee to his mouth and let the warm ceramic mug rest against his chin, the resultant spiral of steam wet his lips.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, you think I’m charming?” He joked and Jaskier’s cheeks went bright red.

Geralt chuckled low in his throat at a joke Jaskier wasn’t in on as he picked up his cutlery with one hand and pulled his plate towards him with the other.

“Eat up.”

Jaskier eyed the large breakfast in front of him. It was a greasy mess of fried eggs, sausages, mushrooms…the smell wafted up his nose and his stomach didn’t growl in the slightest. He gripped his mug tighter.

“No, thank you.” He said stiffly.

Geralt rolled his eyes as he shoved half a slice of buttered toast in his mouth.

“You’re too skinny.” He said as he swallowed his mouthful. “You need to eat.”

“Thanks, mum.” Jaskier muttered, setting his mug back on the table and letting his gaze fall with it.

Geralt didn’t respond and Jaskier glanced up from the laminated tablecloth to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently upset him by making a joke about mothers. He was surprised at the almost doleful look on Geralt’s face.

“Where is she?” He asked softly.

Jaskier blinked in surprise as his mind went to his mother. He thought automatically about the letter he’d left abandoned on the coffee table. He’d knocked it to the floor in his haste to get high before he’d called MI6 a couple of days ago. He could have died outside of that _Burger King_ yesterday and those would have been the last words she’d ever said to him and he’d never know what they were. He looked down into the dark depths of his coffee and sighed.

“Newcastle.”

“With your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Siblings?”

Jaskier winced before he answered.

“A sister.” He said stiffly. “She’s young.”

Geralt nodded silently. He’d noticed Jaskier’s wince and part of him wanted to let the subject drop, but a larger part of him felt like he might get Jaskier to open up a little bit more and relax like he’d done in the hotel the night before. He’d liked that Jaskier, but he didn’t particularly feel the same venom towards the one sat in front of him anymore.

“What’s she like?” He asked.

“She’s blonde.” Jaskier answered quietly. “Like you.”

Geralt snorted. He was fairly sure that was where the similarities ended.

“Do you miss her?” Geralt ventured boldly. He couldn’t exactly talk to Jaskier about parents, but they shared common ground with siblings. Geralt had had a younger sister, too. His stomach flipped painfully, and he ignored it.

“You sure love questions.” Jaskier said to his coffee. His tone was light but there was an edge to his words.

“I have been known to torture people.”

Jaskier finally looked up at him, startled, to see Geralt flashing his white teeth in a grin and Jaskier deflated back into his seat. It was the first modicum of calm he’d shown since he’d walked in.

A few moments of quiet munching and sipping passed between them. Jaskier sipped his coffee and ignored his breakfast while Geralt had already polished off half of his.

“You know,” Geralt carried on after swallowing a bite of sausage and refusing to let the subject drop, “you never did answer my first question.”

Jaskier’s eyes wavered.

“About what your name is.” Geralt clarified and it took barely a moment for Jaskier’s expression to clear. His sharp mind was probably pinpointing the exact moment in their initial meeting when it was just a fuzzy memory to the agent. They both felt like it was a lifetime ago instead of the handful of days it had been.

Jaskier’s brow furrowed and it looked like he was thinking for a long moment before he answered.

“I’ll tell you, but in exchange you have to do something for me.”

“I don’t negotiate.” Geralt smirked, there was something cold about it.

Jaskier shrugged and leant further back into his chair, pulling his legs up until he was sat cross-legged. He looked as if he was making himself comfortable as he perched his elbows on the laminated tablecloth.

“Depends on how much you want it.” Jaskier challenged, his tongue just teasing his bottom lip as the little shit _grinned_.

It occurred to Geralt that in any other situation, if they were different people with different lives, Jaskier would have been _flirting_ with him.

In all honesty, the reason Geralt was being coy was because he was legitimately unsure about making any kind of deal with the kid. He didn’t know what Jaskier would ask for, and a traitorous part of his mind wondered if it would be drugs. Geralt hadn’t seen him take anything since they’d left the flat, but he was sure he had. Jaskier was fidgety and nervous, even now, but Geralt was beginning to suspect he was always like that. Or more like, he couldn’t imagine him any other way. He supposed that was quite sad.

Geralt didn’t agree to anything, he didn’t acquiesce in any way, instead he allowed Jaskier to finish at his own speed.

“When this is over,” Jaskier finally said, “I don’t want to work for MI6 anymore.”

Geralt understood. He really did. The poor kid had had guns pointed at him and had been threatened and almost killed. Sometimes Geralt forgot that people didn’t usually get mortally threatened in their everyday lives. Maybe when he was Jaskier’s age he would have asked for the same thing. Geralt felt guilty that, of all the opinions he had of Jaskier with his nervousness and his fidgeting, the truth was that he was scared.

“Okay, fine, I agree.” Geralt said. “But I don’t want your name, I want something else from you.”

“What?” Jaskier asked.

“I want you to eat your breakfast.” Geralt replied with a grunt, sitting back in his chair and bringing his coffee mug to his mouth.

Jaskier didn’t move for a second. Maybe he was shocked at actually getting what he asked for, or just shocked that someone actually seemed to care about his wellbeing for the first time in a very long time. Geralt expected him to say something but he didn’t. instead, he reached his arms out and awkwardly picked up his knife and fork.

Geralt sipped his coffee as Jaskier popped a fried tomato in his mouth.

Jaskier chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and then said: “My name is Julian Pankratz.”

Geralt smiled into his mug.

Jaskier ate slowly and thoughtfully, chewing every bite thoroughly as if he were afraid of the food in his mouth. He didn’t eat much, but enough for Geralt to be satisfied he wasn’t going to pass out on him in the car on the way to Coventry.

They paid and walked out. Jaskier in front, Geralt trailing behind and keeping an eye on him.

Neither of them noticed the non-descript man sat with a mug of coffee and reading a newspaper by the window.

He waited for a long time after they left and then he put his paper down with a light rustle and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“ _What happened?_ ” A worried voice spilled quietly out of the receiver.

“Nothing.” The lone man replied. “They came in, ate, eye-fucked across the table and then left.”

The man on the phone huffed in annoyance.

“ _Did you get anything useful?_ ”

“His name is Julian Pankratz and his family live in Newcastle. They have two children and more than likely filed a ‘missing son’ report in the last few years.”

Back in London, Damien Li smiled into his phone.

“Track his family down,” he said. “MI6 think they’ve got leverage over us? Now we have leverage over them.”


	7. thou hast thy music too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: a little heads up, this chapter contains mentions of/allusions of murder/infanticide (murder of a child)

Chapter Seven

_thou hast thy music too_

They reached Coventry by the afternoon and the safe house was nestled _safely_ on the edge of city. It was a single, semi-detached house at the end of a rather unassuming cul-de-sac. It was a two-storey building built from brown brick, with rustic wooden eaves and a small grass patch of garden lined with overgrowing lavender plants and filling the air with a sweet aroma.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Geralt murmured, pressing his phone to his ear.

“It is nice.” Jaskier admitted, staring up at the safe house as he closed the car door behind him blindly. It was a very nice house, large and expensive and it inexplicably reminded him of his parent’s house.

He’d thought about his family a lot on the drive here. Geralt had unwittingly put the subject in his head in the _Little Chef_ and he hadn’t been able to shake it since. A part of Jaskier wanted to be annoyed at Geralt for bringing up something that wasn’t any of his business, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be mad. Geralt was just trying to be nice, after all, and he was looking after him. Jaskier often forgot to eat for hours, sometimes days on end, and he didn’t notice it until his body was completely sapped of nutrients and he was near passing out. He felt uncharacteristically _hearty_ with half a fry up sitting in his stomach. He glanced over at Geralt instinctively and the agent furnished him with a small, greeting smile as he waited for his call to be answered and Jaskier snapped his gaze to the floor. Whatever barely veiled hatred the agent had had for him when they’d first met seemed to have left him now.

“Go on in.” Geralt caught his attention by tossing the house key at him. “I’ve got a few calls to make.”

Jaskier barely caught the key as it collided with his breastbone with probably more force than Geralt had been intending and he hid his grunt as he nodded and slung his rucksack over one shoulder.

Jaskier unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was just as unassuming on the inside as it was on the outside, although Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.

He toed off his shoes by the door and left them next to a wooden umbrella stand before he looked around.

The house opened into one long hallway made entirely of dark wood with a single cream rug running down the centre like a great lolling tongue towards a single closed door. To the right was a staircase with a heavy wooden banister and on the left were two doors. Jaskier put his hand on the banister and peered up the stairs. There was a corner, and he couldn’t see all the way up.

Instead, he left the stairs and picked the first door on the left. It opened into a large living room. The floor was wooden and varnished, decorated with a soft, brown rug that matched the two leather sofas perfectly placed around the large glass coffee table that dominated the space. There was a television mounted on the far wall and on either side were two large, ornate bookcases absolutely stuffed with tomes.

Jaskier set his bag down gently in the crook of one of the sofa arms before approaching one of the bookcases curiously.

He ran his hand along the worn spines before selecting one at random. It was so tightly packed it actually took a few tugs to pull it out and a cloud of dust followed it. He turned the heavy book over in his hands and hoped it was worth it. It was a faded-red bound anthology of _John Keats_.

Jaskier hadn’t read much poetry in his life outside of his GSCE English class a lifetime ago but still he opened the book to a page at random and read a few lines. They didn’t make a great deal of sense to him but he remembered the advice his teacher had given him to read poetry out loud to better understand it, so he shrugged and gave it a shot.

“ _Make not your rosary of yew-berries,_

_Nor let the beetle, nor the downy owl,_

_A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;_

_For shade to shade with come to drowsily_ -“

“- _And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul_.” Geralt finished from behind him with a smirk.

Jaskier turned on one foot and almost dropped the heavy book in his surprise.

Geralt was stood in the doorway to the living room and Jaskier immediately noticed the black socks on his feet where he’d taken his shoes off. He didn’t know why that made him happy.

“You know _Keats_?” Jaskier asked disbelievingly.

Geralt raised an eyebrow as he walked into the living room, unbuttoning his suit jacket, and slipping it from his broad frame. Jaskier noticed the bandages on Geralt’s hands were gone.

“What? Because I’m an undercover agent, I can’t appreciate poetry?”

Jaskier was about to retort when he saw the look of pain on Geralt’s face as he moved his arms to remove his jacket.

“You okay?” He asked instead.

“Yeah.” Geralt’s reply was breathier than he’d intended as he laid his jacket neatly on the arm of the sofa next to Jaskier’s rucksack. “It’s just a scratch.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else.

“The undercover guards are on their way.” Geralt explained, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Jaskier’s eyes widened but Geralt seemed to anticipate it.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “They’re not coming inside. They’ll stay outside and keep you safe, you won’t even know they’re here.”

Jaskier deflated until –

“I’ll stay until they get here.”

Jaskier stomach dropped because _of course_ Geralt would be leaving. His only job was to get to the safe house in one piece and he had. Jaskier supposed he should have been grateful but at the moment he just couldn’t call up the emotion.

He looked around himself to avoid looking at Geralt and everything seemed to get very real very quickly. Maybe it was something about getting to the safe house after all that happened on the way that made the whole situation finally weigh down on Jaskier. He was being hunted down by a gang of crazed, would-be-murderers, he’d almost died twice and now he was going to have to spend an indefinite period of time in an unknown house in the middle of no where _alone_. A traitorous part of his brain reminded him that he wouldn’t have been bothered by that two days ago.

“How long do I have to stay here?” He found himself asking.

The look Geralt gave him made Jaskier think he would have shrugged if he’d been able to.

“I can’t say.” Geralt said. “We’ll track the syndicate as fast as possible, but these things take time.”

Jaskier knew Geralt was talking from experience but still he huffed.

“I can’t work here.” He pointed out. “I don’t have my equipment, or too many clients, I imagine.”

“So? Take some time off.”

“What about money? I didn’t bring that much…”

“Don’t panic.” Geralt smirked. “You’re our responsibility now. We’ll keep you safe, besides-“ Geralt retrieved his jacket from the sofa “-the kitchen should be fully stocked.”

Geralt was out of the room as quickly as he’d entered it and Jaskier heard the tell-tale heavy footfalls of the agent jogging up the stairs. He rolled his eyes and sought out the kitchen. He imagined any sort of relationship with Geralt Rivia would be hell on his eye muscles.

The kitchen was big and modern with a black glass dining table, dark, glittering counter tops, and a tall black fridge. Jaskier opened the fridge to find it was indeed stocked to the gills and wondered if that had been done for them or if they just kept these things periodically fresh for whenever they were needed. Next to the fridge on the countertop was a knife block and a metal wine rack with three bottles of red wine neatly nestled and one empty holder. Jaskier frowned.

To relax the incessant nagging in his head, he opened the fridge again, pulled out a cucumber and placed it in the fourth holder alongside the other wine bottles. It was thinner and the wrong colour, but it calmed his nerves.

…

By the time Geralt had finished his rounds, by which he’d checked all of the doors and windows, set up all the security cameras and alarms and ensured the house was impregnable as possible, a rich and meaty smell was wafting through the house.

Geralt padded into the kitchen and the wooden floor was cool on his feet despite his socks. He saw pots and pans bubbling on the stove and walked over with a bemused expression, wondering if Jaskier had suddenly gone _Glenn Close_ on him. He peered into one pot to see a rich, mince bolognaise bubbling happily while the other was just boiling water. Chopped spinach and tomatoes lay abandoned on the chopping board and Geralt cocked his head to the side.

“It’ll spit.”

Geralt turned to see Jaskier stood behind him with a tea towel draped over one shoulder and a glass container of raw spaghetti in his hands. He’d managed to sneak up on Geralt just as affectively as he’d done the day they’d met. Geralt supposed that should have worried him but he was too busy being confused.

“Bolognaise sauce will never come out of white.” Jaskier explained and Geralt took a dutiful step back.

“Are you cooking?” He asked.

“No,” Jaskier said as he twirled spaghetti into the boiling water and dusted a sprinkle of sea salt into the concoction. “What gave you that idea?”

“Alright.” Geralt hummed. “Why?”

“I was hungry.” Jaskier shrugged. “And you’re sticking around for a while, right?” The question was rhetorical but still Jaskier’s gaze flicked to Geralt before it returned to the stove just as quickly.

Geralt leant back against the countertop and offered nothing in reply.

“Can I help?” He asked after a moment of idleness.

“No.” Jaskier said, staring at the bubbling pasta pot with the same hyper fixated look he’d worn when tying Geralt’s bandage. “It’s almost ready, go sit down.”

“Yes boss.” Geralt joked before taking a seat at the glass dining table. His back was to Jaskier, but he could still hear the kid pottering around and he could hear the sound of boiling and the clatter of pots and pans.

Geralt settled himself back and tried to get comfortable, but the leather of the sturdy dining chairs was brittle and hard against his back and it sent a shockwave through him. He gulped. He could feel ropes biting into his wrists and the cool of metal and the sharp sting of pointed edges against his skin. He involuntarily imagined the boiling water being poured over him. Geralt let out a shaky breath and prepared to shove his discomfort to the bottom of his stomach as always.

“Can we eat in the living room?” Geralt didn’t know who had asked that because it sure as hell wasn’t _him_.

“Hmm?” Jaskier replied.

“Some hard chairs make me a bit uncomfortable.” Geralt was grateful he had his back to Jaskier. He’d never uttered that mortifying piece of information out loud and prepared himself, with a wince, for Jaskier to fly into a panic that the man who was supposed to keep him safe was afraid of _fucking chairs_.

“Sure, fine with me.” Jaskier replied.

Geralt breathed out a quiet sigh of relief and jumped up. He glanced at Jaskier, who was bent over the chopping board and not looking at him, before he walked into the living room and sunk down on the sofa.

He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. He debated whether or not to turn the television on to distract himself, but he didn’t.

Jaskier walked in about fifteen minutes later holding two black bowls. He handed one to Geralt and placed his own on the glass coffee table before disappearing back into the kitchen. Geralt looked down at his bowl. It was a simple spaghetti bolognaise, but the smell wafted up Geralt’s nose and he actually groaned. It had been a long time since Geralt had eaten something that wasn’t from the services or shitty hospital food.

Jaskier came back into the living room and smiled softly as he offered Geralt a fork. Geralt took it as Jaskier perched on the other end of the same sofa and hugged his bowl to his stomach as he did so. Jaskier didn’t bring up the dining room chairs and Geralt was grateful.

Geralt wasted no time piling food into his mouth and let out a little laugh.

“This is really good.”

“Less shock, please.”

Geralt laughed again before taking another large mouthful.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I can’t.” Jaskier offered as he took a dainty bite of his own. Geralt liked to think maybe coercing him into eating his breakfast had kick-started his appetite or maybe he was eating to make Geralt happy before he shook his head and reminded himself that Jaskier was was probably just _hungry_.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed pleasantly, sinking comfortably back into the sofa. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

“Do you live alone?” Jaskier asked innocently.

“Yeah.” Geralt snorted. “But I wouldn’t exactly call my life ‘homey’.”

They both fell silent again. Geralt could tell Jaskier wanted to ask questions but he didn’t.

Once they’d finished eating, Geralt thanked Jaskier and took their bowls to the kitchen. He left them in the sink and frowned in confusion as he passed a wine rack and with a cucumber stuck absurdly in one of the holders.

He shook his head and instead took one of the red wine bottles and two glasses back to the living room.

He found Jaskier on the couch exactly as he’d left him except that he’d crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

Geralt smiled as he placed the glasses down on the coffee table with a muted _clink_ before unscrewing the wine bottle and pouring them a drink.

Jaskier opened his eyes and watched the glasses silently.

“Do you drink?” Geralt asked, feeling a bit silly for not asking before. He concentrated on trying to make the wine levels in both glasses the same just in case.

“Not much.” Jaskier admitted, sitting forward and uncrossing his legs. He managed to position himself, so he was sat on one ankle and had his other foot planted on the floor. Geralt was starting to suspect he didn’t know how to sit normally.

“Well, now’s a good time to start.” Geralt handed Jaskier a glass and Jaskier took it. He took a small sip and winced and Geralt pretended not to notice.

“So, go on then.” He prompted, looking down into his glass as he swirled the red liquid around inside and took a measured sip. His went down easier.

“What?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt furnished him with a humourless but not unfriendly smirk.

“You’re fond of questions yourself,” he turned to Jaskier fully, so his back was resting against the plush arm of the couch. “You’ve been wanting to ask me something all day, so spill.”

“It’s not important.” Jaskier said, turning as red as his wine.

“I’ll do you a deal.” Geralt took another sip. “Whatever you ask me, I’ll answer.”

Jaskier blinked and his mouth opened before his mind had decided on the words.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” He asked boldly. “Something recently. That _scar_ on your back…and you seem a little…”

“A little what?”

“I don’t know?” Jaskier admitted honestly. “Detached?”

Geralt pursed his lips and Jaskier’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and regret.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Geralt stopped him. “I promised. I’m a man of my word.” He looked at him as he considered the legal implications of telling Jaskier such classified information. Information that could be tortured out of him and used against them both. Somehow, he felt defenceless. “I spent nearly two years in the middle east in a deep cover mission to stop an arms dealer from starting a civil war in Sudan.”

Jaskier was silent for a long time and Geralt was close to regretting saying anything.

“What happened?” Jaskier asked softly.

Geralt distracted himself by taking a large gulp of wine and draining his glass; it helped considerably.

“We failed.” He admitted, his intonation uncharacteristically high. “Our cover was blown; we don’t know how or by who, but they got away. We’ve got agent’s tracking them down but,” he blew a raspberry and gestured redundantly, “it’s not looking good.”

“Why aren’t you out there?”

Geralt smiled humourlessly before pouring himself another glass. He leant over to top Jaskier up before seeing the younger man still had half a glass and he moved away. Jaskier swallowed and downed his own drink with a wrinkle of his nose before he held his now empty glass out to Geralt. Geralt didn’t say anything as he filled him back up and placed the now half-empty bottle back onto the coffee table.

“Vesemir thought I was too close to the mission and he didn’t want me out there.”

Geralt didn’t know why he was telling Jaskier all of this and why precisely _now_ it was coming out after all the time he’d kept it bottled up. But he did remember what Vesemir had said about how he hadn’t spoken to anyone about what had happened, except for Triss, and he found he wanted to talk to someone relatively normal about what had happened. He assumed it was the wine. Sudan had been following him around like a fucking storm cloud and saying the words out loud, he didn’t know, legitimised them somehow.

“You disagree?” Jaskier prompted curiously.

“I don’t know.” Geralt admitted honestly, staring into his drink like it could offer him answers. “Yes and no. I know why he’s doing it, but I would have caught them by now. It’s my mission, you know. Vesemir just…”

“Cares about you?”

Geralt’s head snapped to Jaskier.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

Jaskier shrugged and took a sip of his drink.

“Maybe he’s not willing to sacrifice you to catch them.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that. He knew he wasn’t telling Jaskier the full story. He was omitting Renfri completely as if she hadn’t existed because he couldn’t bear to say her name out loud. Another part of him didn’t want Jaskier to know that Renfri had died because of him, because then he’d lose all trust in him and just the thought put a rock in Geralt’s stomach.

Not an hour later and the bottle of wine was almost empty and Geralt and Jaskier had inched incrementally closer to each other on the couch. Geralt had long since loosened his tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt to give himself some air as the room grew hotter around him.

Jaskier was red-faced and giggly and definitely tipsier than Geralt but Geralt would have been lying if he said he wasn’t there himself. The truth was that the pair of them were more drunk off of the safety and comfort of the warm room after the past couple of days of threats and death and pain just as much as the wine.

“I refuse to believe you.” Geralt laughed into his glass.

“I swear to god.” Jaskier giggled louder than necessary.

“Any _Eminem_ song?”

“Yep.”

Geralt frowned, searching the recesses of his mind for any _Eminem_ song he actually knew the title to.

“The closet one.” He finally decided, and no sooner had he said it, had Jaskier started poorly rapping:

“ _Have you ever been hated or discriminated against? I have, I’ve been protested and demonstrated against, picket sighs for my wicked rhymes, look at the times. Sick as the mind of the motherfucking kid that’s behind all this commotion, emotions run deep as ocean’s exploding, tempers flaring from parents, just blow them off and keep going, not taking nothing from no one, give them hell long as I’m breathing, keep kicking ass in the morning and taking names in the evening_ …”

“Alright.” Geralt leant forward on the sofa and planted his feet on the floor. “Jesus.” He took a much-needed drink as Jaskier devolved into a fit of giggles.

“I know.” Jaskier blushed as he slurred. “I have an eidetic memory, I don’t always choose what I get to remember.”

“Bullshit.” Geralt said immediately.

“What?” Jaskier leant towards him. “You don’t believe me?”

“No.” Geralt scoffed.

Jaskier pursed his lips to conceal his smirk with a challenging look in his eyes.

“What’s your phone number?”

“Christ, half a bottle of wine and you get bold.”

“Ha ha, phone number please.” Jaskier was looking at him all wide-eyed and platonic and Geralt shook his head.

“07544 734529.” He recited from memory.

“07544 734529.” Jaskier repeated back without missing a beat.

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up in shock.

“You’re like, one of those child geniuses.” Was all his drunk, stupefied brain could offer up.

“Pfft.” Jaskier scoffed, settling back in the sofa with his wine glass. “I _was_. Now I’m twenty-four and no one cares if you’re clever or not.”

“And you realise you could be doing something slightly more worthwhile with your time than making fake I.D’s for teenagers, right?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier chuckled sadly into his wine glass with a resigned look on his face.

“What I do for a living, I can do from my flat on my terms. I’m not good with people or, you know,” he gestured widely, “the outside.”

Geralt leant back on the arm of the sofa, one hand around his glass, the other covering his knee, and regarded Jaskier.

“Why is that?” He asked genuinely. “Don’t get me wrong, I get social anxiety I just…did something trigger it?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier was still looking into his glass and it was almost like Geralt could feel him retreating in on himself.

They were at that drunken part of their evening where Geralt threw his inhibitions, his social norms, and his awkwardness out of the window. He leant forward as if a metaphor for his next, probing statement.

“Hey, you can trust me.” He rumbled.

“I know I can.” Jaskier mumbled. “You just don’t want to know.”

“Try me.” Geralt said. “I won’t judge, I promise.”

“Can I have some more wine, please?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt obliged. He reached for the bottle and poured a decent amount into Jaskier’s extended glass. There was something strangely intimate about the exchange but still Geralt wished that Jaskier would look at him.

Jaskier downed nearly half of the glass in one go before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he was psyching himself up for something, Geralt actually began to feel nervous about what he was going to say.

“When I was a kid.” Jaskier started and then stopped, swirling his remaining wine around in his glass and watching the churning liquid as if it were a mirror for his mind. He took a deep breath and tried again.

“When I was a kid, I think I was eight, there was this home invasion. My parents were well off and people knew it, they tried to rob us all of the time and stuff.” He took another long sip and stared down at his glass. His voice was thick, and his body language was cagey as if he were trying to protect himself from Geralt, or maybe from the world. “These two guys came in the middle of the night. Prissi wasn’t born yet and I was the youngest. I guess they thought the best way to get my mum and dad to give up what they had in the house was to go through me.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt said quietly without meaning to. His hand flexed and he wanted to drunkenly close the small space between them, to put a hand on his arm or his shoulder just to remind him he was there, but he didn’t.

“They hauled me out of bed,” Jaskier continued quietly, “and I remember waking up in this guys arms and it hurt ‘cause he was holding me so tight. I was so confused, and I was scared as hell and he had his hands around my throat.” Jaskier brought his hand to his throat as he spoke, as if mimicking the rough grip. The bruise from the syndicate member’s gun still sat shallow and yellow in the hollow of his throat and it made Geralt wince. “This knife was pressed against my cheek and I had no idea what was happening. I was so scared and I, ah, I pissed all over him.”

Geralt looked down at his own glass as if giving Jaskier some privacy with his memories.

“He took me to the front room and my parents were there. They were tied up, I think. My brother was there as well. He was a few years older than me; he was twelve, I mean. I can’t remember if he was tied up or not. To be honest with you, I can’t remember much. Most of this is what the police told me.” He cleared his throat. “So, my parents were crying and screaming for him to let me go-” he was speaking quickly and detachedly as if recalling a boring conversation rather than a traumatic event because that’s how his brain had protected him. “My brother, Valdo, just ran at me like a mad man, barrelled into this guy holding me and we all fell over and I remember the carpet. Is that weird? I remember the carpet in my face because it was kind of scratchy and stiff and it hurt my cheek. Anyway, I rolled over and…” Geralt might have imagined the tremor in Jaskier’s bottom lip. “Valdo was on the floor and the knife was sticking out of his neck.”

_Fuck_ , Geralt thought. He closed his eyes but Jaskier carried on regardless.

“He was bleeding everywhere, there was so much blood, more blood than you think can come out of a person. I think I might have been lying in it.”

Geralt tried to catch his eye but Jaskier was too busy downing the rest of his wine.

“What happened?” He asked instead.

Jaskier shrugged.

“He died, on the floor, looking at me.” Jaskier’s eyes were hollow as he stared at the floor, they looked like a doll’s eyes. Geralt had seen, and caused, a lot of death in the last two decades but never had he seen such a haunted look in someone’s eyes.

“I knew he was dead. I was eight, but I knew he was dead.” Jaskier didn’t blink. “His eyes changed. They went from, I don’t know, Valdo to not-Valdo, it’s hard to explain. Then the police came and arrested them, but it was too late. Prissi never even met him.”

“Did they get done?”

Jaskier nodded at his empty glass.

“Twenty-three years for manslaughter and infanticide. They were up for parole a few years ago but nothing happened.”

“What about you?” Geralt asked softly.

“What about me, what?”

“I don’t know. How did you cope?”

Jaskier laughed but it was an empty sound. He finally looked at Geralt and the only thing Geralt could think of was that he looked _tired_.

“I had a rough couple of years. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I developed quite intense agoraphobia into my formative years. I was in therapy, I was on anti-depressants, beta-blockers and a bunch of other stuff.” Jaskier sounded like he was reeling off a diagnosis memorised from saying it so many times, or at least in Jaskier’s case, seeing it once and never forgetting it. “I got better but I never really, you know…”

“When was the last time you saw your family?” Geralt asked.

“About four years ago.” Jaskier admitted. “It’s hard to be around them. They just remind me of him.”

“I get that.” Geralt ran his hand through his hair and sat heavily back against the arm of the couch. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Jaskier shrugged. “It’s mine. He would still be alive today if it weren’t for me.”

It was like looking in mirror. It made Geralt wonder if that was what he looked like when he talked about Renfri. So broken, so tortured, so…innocent?

“Look at me,” Geralt said quietly, shifting closer to him on the couch and putting his glass down on the coffee table. “Look at me.” He repeated more firmly.

Their eyes met across the short space that separated them.

“Those sick fucks that broke into your home killed your brother, not you. It’s not your fault.”

Jaskier gave him a resigned look.

“Yeah, well, if he could see me now, he’d be ashamed of me.”

Jaskier’s words struck something deep inside of Geralt he hadn’t even realised was there. He supposed it was because he didn’t have the longevity of grief that Jaskier had. He hadn’t imagined what life would be like if Renfri were still here because he was too preoccupied with the fact she was gone.

If she’d seen him since Sudan and everything that had happened, the train, the syndicate, the _medication_ , would she be ashamed?

“No, he wouldn’t.” Geralt finally decided. “None of us are ever going to have it together, I can promise you that.”

“So how do you deal with it?” Jaskier asked somewhat rhetorically.

“I don’t know yet.” Geralt admitted honestly. Jaskier smiled then, feeling validated and somehow less alone than before.

“Can I ask how you felt about…medication?” Geralt asked guiltily. “Did you ever feel like you weren’t like, strong enough on your own, or something?”

“At first, maybe.” Jaskier admitted honestly, a hesitant look in his eyes. “But it’s the same as a broken leg, right? You just can’t see it. They saved my life.”

Geralt didn’t say anything as he poured the last dribbles of wine into their glasses and they sat in silence for a long while, both recovering from the heavy conversation and both stuck in their own minds, albeit for different reasons.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should try and reconnect with your sister.” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier didn’t respond and Geralt was worried he’d overstepped his bounds. He was just opening his mouth to apologise and tell Jaskier to forget it when Jaskier spoke.

“She doesn’t need me in her life.”

“I’m certain she does.” Geralt replied. “You know better than most what it’s like to grow up without a brother.”

“I do miss her.” Jaskier said earnestly, his troubled expression clearing slightly. “She’s so much younger than me, I don’t know if that’s why I’m so protective of her. She was seven when I left so she’d be eleven now. Eleven years old. She might not even remember me.”

“You remember Valdo.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier sighed. “I hope they’re nice memories. I must have been a nightmare to grow up with.”

“I’m sure you did your best.” Geralt assured him. “You were going through hell. You talk about her like she’s the sun.”

Jaskier smiled bashfully.

“I was so grateful when she was born, and she was a small, pretty, blonde girl. She was nothing like me and maybe she wouldn’t go through the things I did.”

Geralt didn’t tell Jaskier how sad that was, instead he sat silent, his head fuzzy as Jaskier carried on talking.

“I was the only one she let plait her hair.” Jaskier said fondly. “She didn’t like the way anyone did it because I was so precise. I always used to do it for her at breakfast before school.”

As he was speaking, he’d absentmindedly reached across the sofa and picked up a small strand of Geralt’s hair. Geralt, drunk and compromised, barely even registered it.

Jaskier plaited a small section of Geralt’s white hair and grinned to himself as he let the perfect braid fall to his shoulder.

“Still got it.” He mused.

Geralt’s eyes found Jaskier’s and everything was calm for a fraction of a second before the air between them became thick with the implication of what had just happened and exactly how close they’d gotten on the couch so their thighs were pressed against each other.

Geralt’s head cleared and it was like he was waking up from a deep sleep. He leant back, creating a cool distance, before he cleared his throat.

“Um. Time for bed.” He announced.

Jaskier blinked before he nodded slowly.

“The bedroom is upstairs. “ Geralt said helpfully. “First door on the right. There’s only one, you can’t miss it.”

“Where are you going to sleep?” Jaskier frowned.

“I’ll stay on the couch.” Geralt patted the leather seat below him.

“That’s not fair.”

“What would you suggest?” Geralt challenged.

They both froze and there was nothing in room for a few moments except the sound of their own breathing.

Jaskier stood like a lightening bolt had shot through him and scratched the back of his neck, red settling over his cheeks.

“I’m going to, um…” He pointed at the door. “Err, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Geralt looked at the floor and heard the light shuffle of Jaskier leaving the room before he rubbed his eyes and slumped back, absolutely exhausted.


	8. to break a broken thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: small chapter warning, allusions to non-con/sexual coercion

Chapter Eight

_to break a broken thing_

The next day, Geralt woke up with a face full of couch cushion.

He hadn’t bothered to get a blanket or even to change out of his suit. Luckily for him, he was big enough and a seasoned-enough drinker that half a bottle of wine didn’t give him a hangover anymore, but it did allow him to pass out pretty cheerfully and sleep all the way through the night.

He pushed himself up from the couch and glanced around the dark, unfamiliar room as he pulled the tie from his hair and let it fall over his shoulders and padded to the bathroom. Geralt splashed his face with cold water and pressed a hand towel to the wet skin before checking himself over in the mirror above the basin. He looked tired and his hair was a mess except for a small, neat plait nestled by his ear. He touched it.

Geralt washed and redressed his bullet wound before going back into the living room in time to see his phone ringing on the coffee table. It vibrated loudly against the glass and he answered without checking the caller I.D.

“ _Geralt, how’s the arm?_ ” Vesemir asked.

“Still a bit stiff.” Geralt replied on autopilot.

“ _Ah, it’ll get better_.” Vesemir responded, demonstrating both his lack of humour and the lengths of his fatherly affection, in one simple sentence. “ _How’s the kid?_ ”

“Asleep.” Geralt supplied. “He’s fine.”

“ _Is he a bit calmer in the safe house?_ ”

Geralt’s mind was unwittingly drawn back to their evening together on the couch and all of the things Jaskier had told him, all of the things Jaskier had _trusted_ him enough to tell him. Geralt shook his head, they’d just been drinking, that was all.

“Yeah, he’s calmer now.”

Vesemir hummed his approval.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he changed the subject. “ _Were you ever briefed on the Sharir?_ ”

Geralt’s brow furrowed as the name sparked something deep in the recesses of his mind. When he finally enclosed his hand around the metaphorical ball of long-forgotten information, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“The bomb-builders?” He asked almost rhetorically. “Eskel’s first case with Aiden?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Geralt remembered the _Sharir_. The self-named, Syrian-born, London-based amateur bomb-builders who sold their ill-put-together wares to any fanatic with enough money.

They’d come to MI6’s attention about fifteen years ago when Geralt was still a rookie and one of their bombs had levelled a block of flats in Barking and killed twelve people.

It was a national scandal splashed across British news and the _Sharir_ had been infamously dubbed by the tabloids as the ‘Barking bombers’ and anyone over a certain age remembered it with a shudder.

It was the first case Eskel had worked on with this then-partner Aiden and it had gone on for months. Geralt had remembered seeing Eskel cracking at the edges, it had almost broken him but equally it had made him into the agent he was today.

They’d managed to foil the group and get them arrested and Geralt was pretty sure Eskel was plotting to repeal the _Official Secrets Act_ so he could use the story as a pick-up line.

But, as with all cases, it had been forgotten as new threats had reared their ugly heads and Geralt hadn’t heard the name in a very long time.

“ _The youngest lad_ ,” Vesemir continued, “ _Faisal Antar, the little brother of the ringleader, he only got ten years because they only pinned him as an accessory. He’s out now_.”

“Okay.”

“ _The Met. have just got back to me about your train kid, turns out he got the bomb from a website on the dark web. I gave it to Tech and they’ve traced it back to Antar’s residence_.”

“Oh shit.” Geralt said in surprise. “He’s starting it up again?”

“ _Looks like it_.”

“Are you going to call Eskel back from Sudan?” Geralt hated how hopeful he sounded. “It’s his case.” He finished lamely by way of an excuse.

“ _That’s a bit of a long story for another time_.” Vesemir sighed.

Geralt’s brow furrowed and he stood a little straighter.

“What’s happened in Sudan? Have they tracked down the Devenere brothers?”

“ _Another time, lad_.” Vesemir repeated firmly and Geralt bit his tongue. “ _Right now, I want you focused on this. Antar’s address is about fifteen minutes away from you_.”

Geralt blinked against the bizarre coincidence.

“Really?” He asked in surprise.

“ _I know_.” Vesemir agreed. “ _Thought I’d take advantage of the good luck. If you’ve got a spare moment, can you drop in and check it out for me? For intel purposes only, of course, I just want to latch onto this pretty quickly and it’ll be useful to get the drop on them_.”

Geralt looked up at the ceiling instinctively to the bedroom above where Jaskier was currently sleeping. The armed officers hadn’t arrived yet and Geralt didn’t feel remotely comfortable about leaving Jaskier alone and, he imagined, Jaskier wouldn’t be too pleased about it, either.

He was used to saying yes to a job as soon as anything was asked of him, even before Sudan, but something now made him hesitate. If it was only intel gathering then it wouldn’t take long, he reasoned with himself. He checked his watch. It was still early and considering how long it had taken Jaskier to pull himself out of bed at the _Travelodge_ yesterday, Geralt knew he could be there and back before Jaskier even stirred.

He nodded to himself. He’d be an hour, tops, and he’d have breakfast cooking by the time Jaskier woke up. He remembered the way Jaskier had eaten his eggs first at the _Little Chef_ and resolved to fry some up, maybe even pouch them, on toast, perhaps with a side of bacon and a black coffee, Jaskier would like that. It would be like repaying the favour for last night.

“Okay, no worries. Text me the address and I’ll sort it today.” Geralt promised, feeling cheerier.

“ _Good lad_.” Vesemir said before hanging up.

Geralt pulled up in front of Antar’s residence less than fifteen minutes later and killed the engine as he looked out at the house. It was an unassuming end-of-terrace house with a small, bricked up garden outside. The road out front was full of parked cars and Geralt had to assume that anyone living there was probably at home, or maybe even asleep. He reasoned that might actually be to his benefit, he could just sneak in and check the place out without waking anyone. He briefly wondered if he had a warrant for this, and considering the mole in the British government, assumed that he didn’t. He smirked to himself that this was pretty much just breaking and entering but rolled his eyes and stepped out of the car regardless. Better to find something incriminating now and save someone or several someone’s lives than wait for their mole to conveniently inform the _Sharir_ they were being investigated by MI6, so they disappeared on them like the Devenere’s.

Geralt unsheathed his gun from his shoulder holster as a precaution and rolled his shoulder in its socket a few times. It was still sore, but he could use it if he had to.

He tried the front door, but it was locked. He grunted. He’d expected as much. Geralt hunkered down onto one knee and pulled a small black case from his jacket. He retrieved a non-descript metal tool and used it to swiftly pick the lock before he stood, pocketing the case and pushing the front door open as quietly as possible.

The house opened into a long wooden corridor with a maze of doors lining the walls. It wasn’t dissimilar to the safe house except it had an air of dilapidation about it. The hallway carpet had long since been torn up, leaving the bare, aged slats beneath Geralt’s shoes. It creaked when Geralt stepped forward and he winced. He quietly toed off his oxford’s and left them by the door. He tried another experimental step forward with his socks and when he sunk his foot on the floor, it was silent.

Geralt felt a little vulnerable without his shoes on and he didn’t really know why. It was a habit he’d unconsciously gotten into since being with Jaskier and he found himself doing it automatically now. He knew that his oxford’s were no more impervious to bullets or blades than his socks were, so he didn’t know why he preferred it. He supposed it would make it harder to run away, not that Geralt was in the habit of running unless he had absolutely no choice. He shook his head and reminded himself he was on an intel-gathering mission, he wasn’t there to fight or kill anyone. He wasn’t an assassin, either, even if it did feel like it sometimes.

A quick sweep of the house turned up very little in the way of evidence. There were no weapons, no illegal substances, not even any technological devices to look through. It just looked like a normal house. Geralt momentarily wondered if Vesemir had gotten the right address, or maybe they were just basing an assumption on conjecture – it didn’t necessarily have to be the _Sharir_. But then Geralt supposed that was what these sorts of jobs were for.

He reached the final room on the lower level and his brow furrowed in concentration as he heard low, muffled voices through the door. He pressed his ear to the door and kept his gun low and ready in both hands.

“The last thing we need is them on our asses.” A muffled voice said. “They’ll be on you like a hawk, Fais.”

There was a laugh.

“No, they won’t.” Came another voice. “They didn’t even think I was involved before, all I had to do was cry at the trial. Shame the others didn’t have the same luck.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed and his hands tightened on his gun.

He remembered Chris Radnor, the kid on the train, and the fear in his eyes as he’d clutched that bomb to his chest. He remembered the rows of terrified people cowering behind their seats who would have died if it had gone off. He remembered the look on Vesemir’s face when he’d realised that Geralt could have been among them.

That was what the _Sharir_ did, they used innocent people to get exactly what they wanted, which was money. Geralt always knew the money-obsessed ones were the most dangerous of the lot, because they didn’t have a cause, even a misguided, fanatical one, they were just fuelled by greed and would sacrifice anything and anyone to get it. Geralt felt the familiar rage building up in his stomach like bile. He could hear his heart beating steadily in his ears. It was a like a dark screen had descended over his eyes, the screen that turned every target into John Devenere. The people on the other side of that door were scum and they’d kill again if they hadn’t already. He knew what he should have done, what Vesemir was expecting of him – to report back with any information that the _Sharir_ had reformed and that they posed a threat and should be formally investigated but a louder part of him told him to fuck the protocols and bring them in today.

Geralt’s hand was already on the doorknob, his other enclosed around his gun and he was about to pull the door open when something, for the first time since Sudan, stopped him.

There could be anything on the other side of that door: any number of people and any number of weapons. What would happen to Jaskier if Geralt didn’t come back?

He was unceremoniously overwrought with mental images of the syndicate breaking down the door while Jaskier was alone and terrified and defenceless and those mental images unwittingly morphed into the memory of Jaskier having that gun shoved degradingly into his mouth outside of the services. That couldn’t happen again, not in the safe house. Jaskier would die. And, his brain chipped in unhelpfully, he’d die just like his brother and probably think it was some sick cosmic justice.

Geralt swallowed and lowered his gun, wondering why he was still pretending to think when he’d already made up his mind. His mission was to protect Jaskier and he honoured that without realising that Jaskier was keeping him safe, as well.

He stepped away from the door.

…

Jaskier was grimacing before he was even awake. He had a headache forming behind his eyes and a heavy lump in his boxers. He pressed the heel of his palm against his groin and ground down against it for a few moments, enjoying the pleasurable sensations before he took his hand away and sighed.

He sat up in the large, unfamiliar bed which only served to aggravate his hangover. He didn’t need a moment to get his bearings or to try and remember where he was, he already knew. He was stuck in a safe house in the middle of nowhere to hide from an insane syndicate who were trying to kill him while Agent Geralt Rivia was downstairs protecting him.

He winced as he was unceremoniously reminded of his very deep, very drunken conversation with Geralt the night before. He’d told him about Valdo, he’d never told _anyone_ about Valdo before. Something in his gut twisted just thinking about his brother but it was a familiar ache, and it was easy to focus on the embarrassment of drunkenly spilling his soul to the poor agent. Geralt probably thought he was crazy. Well, _crazier_.

He looked at the _Samsung_ Geralt had given him a few days ago, scowling at the unfamiliar controls and missing the familiarity and comfort of his iphone. It was 10:10am.

Jaskier didn’t know if Geralt would still be asleep on the couch or if he was an early riser and he didn’t want to risk disturbing him. Geralt was still injured, after all, he needed all the rest he could get and shouldn’t have been on the couch at all. Jaskier wouldn’t have minded taking it. He looked around at the large bed and mused that it was big enough for them to share.

Jaskier didn’t know what was supposed to happen today and a part of him feared getting out of bed to start it off. He knew, with a lump in his throat, that Geralt would be leaving. He also knew that shouldn’t have bothered him.

He pulled on some tight jeans and an old t shirt before making his way downstairs into the living room only to find it empty. There were no pillows or blankets on the couch or any of Geralt’s clothes strewn around. It was like he hadn’t been there at all. In fact, the only traces of the pair of them and their evening together was the empty wine bottle and rouge-tinted glasses abandoned on the coffee table.

Jaskier picked up the glasses one-handed and they _clinked_ softly together in his grip. He grabbed the empty bottle with the other and took them to the kitchen. He was half-expecting to find Geralt sat at the table, maybe eating or on the phone, but he wasn’t there. He remembered Geralt’s issue with the dining chairs and rationalised he wouldn’t have been there anyway.

That was when Jaskier hesitated.

He peeked out through the curtain in the living room and saw the driveway was empty. That settled it. Geralt wasn’t there. He was gone. It barely took a moment for Jaskier to begin to panic. Did that mean that the undercover guards were outside? Had Geralt gone back to London without even saying goodbye? Of course, he would, Jaskier reasoned with himself, he had no reason to. That hurt.

Fear and anxiety surged through Jaskier’s veins like he’d been electrocuted, and it _shocked_ him. He hadn’t realised until precisely that moment how calm he’d felt for at least the last day, and now his usual panic seemed tenfold in comparison. He clenched his hands together as he tried to distract himself from the noticeable increase in his heartrate and the damned headache behind his eyes that wouldn’t go away.

Before he knew it, he was racing up the stairs and practically falling back into the bedroom. His shaking hands unzipped his rucksack and fumbled around inside. His brow furrowed in pain as he produced the remnants of white-streaked clingfilm.

He’d only had one good hit left when he’d left his flat and he’d used it in the hotel after he’d stitched up Geralt’s bullet wound in an attempt to desperately and somewhat successfully expel the memory of bloody hands and the taste of gun mental from the forefront of his mind.

“Shit.” He muttered to himself, his panic rising exponentially as his release was cruelly ripped from his grasp. He looked around the unfamiliar bedroom as if the walls could give him any answers. He ran his hand through his hair and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He cursed again at the _Samsung_ as he remembered that all of his contacts were back in London.

Not thinking straight, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket and pulled on a hoodie as he left the safe house. Coventry was a big city; he’d be able to score somewhere.

…

Geralt was driving back to the safe house when his phone beeped in his breast pocket. He kept an eye on the empty road in front of him as he pulled his phone out and frowned down at the screen. It was a notification from the tracking application linked to the chip in the _Samsung_ Geralt had given Jaskier when they’d left his flat.

He thumbed the notification and it brought up an electronic map. The map zoomed automatically down into a blinking yellow light that represented the _Samsung_ , and by extension Jaskier, moving steadily _away_ from the safe house.

“Where are you going?” Geralt muttered. He frowned as he turned the steering wheel sharply, reversed into a side street and swung the _Alfa_ around in record time before zooming off in the direction of the flashing yellow dot.

…

Jaskier had wandered into a large town square with a dilapidated stone fountain centrepiece that didn’t work and rows of un-watered flowers when he saw them. They were a group of people, three men and two women, occupying a cluster of benches at the back of the square next to an old bank. They were laughing loudly and drunkenly, passing cans of cider and a half-smoked joint between them. It was the mirror image of the exact same group that had offered Jaskier his first hit when he was eighteen years old. The experience had terrified him but then most things did. He swallowed just at the thought of approaching them now, and knew that under any other circumstances he would have just turned and left by now, but he had a job to do and he knew his brain wouldn’t let him abandon it even if he wanted to. He supposed he had to be grateful for the modicum of confidence it gave him.

He approached the group, shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat.

“The fuck do you want, twink?” One of the men slurred, a spiral of smoke escaping his mouth with his words. Jaskier scowled as the stench of marijuana wriggled up his nose. “You can fuck off, we ain’t sharing.”

“That’s a bit tame for me.” Jaskier muttered, pushing up the sleeve of his hoodie and revealing the bruises on his arms. He was met by a chorus of coos like he’d wandered over to a group of pigeons.

“Oh, look, a big scary smackhead.” The same man teased darkly.

“Shut up, Rich.” One of the women berated her friend, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet and smiling at Jaskier. “Sorry about them. They’re twats. Our friend should be able to help you, lovey.” She pointed to a small, winding alleyway squeezed between a betting shop and a church.

A lump caught in Jaskier’s throat from a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

“Thank you.” He said softly.

“No worries, lovey.” She smiled, revealing a missing front tooth and cracked lips. “I don’t suppose you can spare some dosh?”

Jaskier nodded before he’d even realised and reached for his wallet, aware of the eyes of her friends on him. They could, by all rights, rob him blind and he’d be powerless to stop it.

He passed her a twenty-pound note and she smiled again.

“Thanks, lovey.” She slurred drunkenly, slapping his shoulder and making him wince. “We’ve got to stick together, eh?”

He murmured his agreement to mollify the group before turning on his heel and made a beeline for the alleyway as a pit formed into his stomach. Was that the type of person he was? _What, nice?_ His brain chastised him.

The only building in the alley way was a grimy public toilet and Jaskier shivered before stepping inside. All he wanted to do right now was call his dealer and go home to his flat, but he couldn’t because of the fucking syndicate. It would probably be their product he was walking away with and he shrugged, hoping it was as good as everyone claimed.

Both the floor and ceiling were made of cracked white tiles caked in grime. A man was on his knees at one of the urinals and snorting a line from the bowl. Two women were huddled on the floor while one tied off her friend’s arm and slapped the skin to search for a vein. A man stood against the door, smoking a joint and he whistled as Jaskier walked in and Jaskier jumped. His heart rate skyrocketed in his chest and before he knew what he was doing he’d turned, searching desperately for the door. It was so _noisy_ in here, he _couldn’t._

“Can I help you, sweetie?” The man with the joint crowded his exit, a smirk on his face as he took a long drag and crushed the remnants under his boot. The stale smoke filled the air between them and Jaskier coughed. He felt claustrophobic in the small space, crowded with manic bodies off of their collective faces. The whole place stank of sewage and made his already sore head spin. He knew later he would hate himself, but right now he had a job to do.

“I need some.” He muttered quietly, rubbing his shaking hands over his thighs to still them and not meeting the junkie’s eyes. “Heroin.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, _Compadre_.” The junkie’s grin was sharky, his teeth yellow and he had a tired but glinting look in his eyes. He stretched his arms behind himself and Jaskier winced as he heard his shoulders pop in their sockets. “Only premium-grade, high-quality shit here; straight from London.”

“How much?” Jaskier finally looked at him.

The junkie’s eyes raked up and down Jaskier’s body and Jaskier averted his gaze and shrunk back, feeling suddenly exposed. He forced himself to calm. It would only be a few more minutes and he would have what he came for and he’d never have to think of this place again.

“I don’t want your money, sweet thing.” He laughed, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll _give_ you some, if you suck me off.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened at the lewd proposition. Sucking off a drug dealer in a grimy public toilet was a new low, even for him, but something inside Jaskier trembled for a different reason. He was still a virgin and the only dick he’d ever seen was his own.

“No.” He said immediately, shrinking back and nearly colliding with the wall in his haste to put as much distance between them as possible.

The junkie shrugged and looked away, a lechery grin on his face as if he already knew the outcome of this conversation.

“S’fine with me.” He sniffed. “It’s up to you how much you want it.”

“I’ve got money.” Jaskier tried weakly.

“I don’t want your money. I want those pretty lips around my cock. That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and a tear streaked down his face. His heart was beating so manically in his chest it was making him feel sick. He wanted to turn and run but he didn’t. What would he have if he left the bathroom with nothing? An empty safe house? An agent who hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye and who he’d probably never see again?

His face crumpled.

“ _Okay_.” It was barely audible.

The junkie’s smile grew, showing more of his yellow teeth, and he extended an arm out and pushed open a door to one of the bathroom stalls.

“Shall we?”

Jaskier stumbled into the cubicle as if every footstep were a protest and the junkie squeezed in beside him. The junkie was a little shorter than Jaskier but there was still barely enough room for them both and the stinking toilet in the small space. The door clattered shut behind them and the junkie didn’t bother locking it and instead placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and pushed him down.

Jaskier was crying as his knees collided painfully with the floor and he was suddenly eye-level with the bulge in the junkie’s jeans.

“Come on, sweet thing, I haven’t got all day. Get it in your mouth.”

Jaskier’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as the junkie shoved his jeans down around his thighs. The tears fell thick and heavy as he saw the unmistakable lines of a large cockhead pressed against his grubby briefs.

A loud _crash_ outside the cubicle made both of them jump. A cacophony of yells from the users outside flooded the bathroom and the stall door was slammed open with an aggressive _clatter_.

Geralt’s large frame dwarfed the entire doorway but it was nothing compared to the terrifying look in his eyes as he glared down at them.

Relief flooded through Jaskier like he’d been doused with warm water and the same calm as before washed over him. _Geralt’s here, you’re safe_.

“Hey, pal, little busy in here-”

Geralt’s fist connected with the junkie’s face and blood sprayed across the tiled walls as he collapsed into a bony heap by the toilet.

Jaskier didn’t have a moment to process what was going on before Geralt’s hand was curled tightly around his bicep and yanking him to his feet. Jaskier yelped and struggled against the rough manhandling as he was dragged outside of the bathroom and thrown towards the _Alfa_ parked in the alleyway.

It had started to rain lightly, fine sheets of moisture that soaked without warning, and by the time Jaskier had righted himself and turned to Geralt, the agent was stood before him with his white hair plastered to his face, water dribbling down his nose and soaking the collar of his shirt to mould around his thick neck.

Jaskier swallowed.

“Are you on anything?” Geralt’s voice was measured and even, not the furious explosion Jaskier was expecting.

“N…no, I swear.” Jaskier shook his head meekly.

“Get in the car.”

Jaskier wanted to say thank you, or sorry, or how glad he was that Geralt was here, but he didn’t. instead, he curled his hand around the door handle and climbed in the car.

They drove in silence. Jaskier peeled his sodden hoodie from his body and risked a glance over at Geralt. Geralt’s face was stone, his eyes steel, and his knuckles white with how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel.

Jaskier barely even dared to breathe as every torturous second passed and he expected Geralt to erupt into a stream of molten fury, but it never came.

When they were back at the safe house and the door firmly shut against the outside world, Geralt finally took a deep breath. He didn’t remove his damp clothes, he didn’t attend to his wet hair, instead he allowed his frightful rage to come to the surface.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He thundered angrily, turning from the door to Jaskier.

The sudden lack of control and decorum made Jaskier shrink back and he grasped the bannister for support. His t shirt was damp against his body and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were wide and terrified, and he looked younger in that moment than he’d ever done before.

“I’ve been working my ass off trying to keep you alive!” Flecks of spittle flew from Geralt’s mouth as he yelled. “The minute I turn my back, you’re trying to get yourself killed!”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier shot back, letting go of the bannister. It was like he’d absorbed some of Geralt’s ire. “You’re the one who left! You’re the one who swoops in and out of my life when you should have been here!”

“Don’t fucking blame me for your addiction!” Geralt growled dangerously, closing the space between them until their noses were practically touching. When he spoke, Jaskier felt his hot breath ghosting over his lips, his furious eyes inescapable and he felt it _right_ in his gut. “I shouldn’t have left you, but I was gone for half an hour. I was on my way back to you when you decided to take your little field trip.”

Jaskier moved his head and his nose brushed Geralt’s. The resultant pause was pregnant with anger and arousal. Jaskier was the first to step back, his brain repeating Geralt’s words over in his head almost distractedly until something occurred to him.

“Wait,” he frowned, “how did you find me?”

Geralt looked surprised at the question and it deflated him somewhat.

“The phone I gave you has a tracking chip in it.”

“ _Why the fuck are you tracking my phone?_ ” Jaskier asked incredulously.

“So, if you get kidnapped, I can find you.” Geralt snapped. “Not find you on your knees with a _junkie’s cock in your mouth!_ ”

Jaskier wailed, as if the weight of all that had happened had suddenly hit him. He covered his face with his hands almost shamefully and backed off so sharply that his back collided heavily with the wall by the foot of the stairs. Jaskier let his knees give out and slid down the wall, clutching his knees to his chest and sobbing brokenly into his hands.

Geralt’s chest twinged painfully at the sight of him like a sudden onslaught of indigestion. It was moments like this that Geralt was reminded that Jaskier was a very broken man, but that didn’t scare him the way it had done before.

Geralt approached him slowly and sunk down into a crouch beside him, scowling as his wet clothes squelched against him. He could smell the distinct aroma of wet fabric between them as he watched the rise and fall of Jaskier’s shoulders as he sobbed. He was overcome with the same urge he’d had the night before, to reach across the short space and touch him.

His hand was by Jaskier’s cheek before he even realised he’d moved it. He ran his finger over a strand of wet hair plastered across his forehead and tucked it behind his ear. Jaskier froze and lowered his hands, his large eyes flicking to Geralt. His cheeks were tracked with moisture that wasn’t rain.

“Look,” Geralt started softly, taking his hand away, noticing the way Jaskier’s eyes followed it. “I’ve thought about my mother, and why she did what she did, often. It’s easy to tell myself she was being selfish.” He frowned. “It’s harder to admit that she was probably in a lot of pain. I think you’re in a lot of pain, too. But if you carry on like this, all you’ll leave behind are strangers who can barely remember you.” The admission hurt, as many truths did, but he didn’t let that stop him. “You’re a bright kid, you deserve to be remembered.”

Jaskier didn’t respond nor did he look at him. instead, they stayed sat on the floor for a long while as Jaskier calmed at his own pace. His tears dried on his cheeks and his shivering stopped but Geralt stayed with him regardless. He never knew if Jaskier’s physical reactions were the result of anxiety or withdrawal.

“Why do you take that shit?” He asked rhetorically, he knew the answer he just didn’t understand it.

“It keeps me calm.” Jaskier wiped his nose.

“Maybe you need to find something else that keeps you calm.” Geralt murmured. “Something less dangerous.”

Jaskier glanced at him but stayed silent because he knew he already had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trust me, if you live in the roughest parts of town, that’s how easy it is to score. the town I grew up in, we weren’t allowed in the public toilets because people were always shooting up in there :L Also ‘Sharir’ is Arabic for ‘evil’ or ‘wicked’, a little Dickensian naming there 😊


	9. i'll follow you anywhere

Chapter Nine

_i'll follow you anywhere_

The undercover officers arrived about an hour later.

Geralt stepped outside of the safehouse to greet them both. They were young, both male, and Geralt didn’t recognise them. He was unceremoniously reminded of the last time he’d worked with a team he had no experience with but shook his head against the intrusive thought. He had enough problems to worry about without inventing new ones.

He took them back to their car and briefed them with everything they needed to know, which included setting up the laptop in their car to receive a live feed of the security cameras in and out of the house. Geralt had toyed with the idea of erasing everything so far, namely his heated encounters with Jaskier within the four walls. Not because he was ashamed of them, but they were private and personal, and he felt like he was protecting Jaskier’s honour. Regardless, he knew that if and when the footage was reviewed, such a decision would be questioned so he left the footage as it was and hoped never to see it again.

Geralt also gave them a copy of Jaskier’s number, so they could call him if they needed to, and took theirs so Jaskier could call them if he required assistance, but aside from that, they weren’t to step a foot inside.

“He’s a little nervous.” Geralt said almost regretfully “Just, look after him.”

“Yes, Agent Rivia.”

Geralt walked back into the house with a lump in his throat as he mentally prepared himself to tell Jaskier that he had to leave. _He’s going to be alright without you_ , his brain chipped in helpfully, but a part of Geralt didn’t believe it. It felt like leaving Sudan all over again and he didn’t know why.

His phone vibrated in his breast pocket and he answered it unthinkingly.

“Rivia.” Even that sounded sullen.

“ _Geralt_.” Vesemir’s tone wasn’t panicked but it was firm and Geralt stood up a little straighter. His shoulder complained at him, but he ignored it.

“What’s happened?” He asked.

“ _Damien Li happened. They’ve made a threat to MI6_.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“What kind of threat?”

“ _Li and an estimated fifteen of the syndicate forced entry into a house in Newcastle and took the family hostage.”_ Vesemir explained, his voice rough like gravel. “ _They’ve made one outward phone call to us, I’m emailing you the transcript now, but the main point is that they’re demanding immunity from MI6 or they start killing the hostages.”_

“That’s fucking ridiculous.” Geralt said without thinking. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s never going to happen; they must know that?”

“ _I think they do_.” Vesemir admitted. There was a small pause. “ _They want the kid, too_.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold as the cogs in his brain turned and he finally registered that Vesemir had said _Newcastle_.

“Which family?” He asked steadily, already knowing the answer.

“ _Err_ ,” Geralt heart the rustling of paper. “ _The Pancratz_?”

“Shit.” Geralt muttered, closing his eyes.

“ _You know them?_ ”

Geralt opened his eyes and felt the tremor shoot through his arm. He felt so alone, so vulnerable and so useless in that moment that he almost said _Dad_.

“Vesemir,” he said, “they’re Jaskier’s family. His real name is Julian Pankratz. They must have found out and tracked them down.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Vesemir sounded mildly surprised. “ _If he weren’t a piece of shit terrorist, I’d offer him a job._ ”

“Tell me now if you’re even remotely considering this.” Geralt said, he was pressing his phone so hard against his ear it bit into his skin. “Even just using him as a bait. They don’t gain anything from having Jaskier, they just want to hurt him,” he remembered the gun in Jaskier’s mouth and winced, “ _punish_ him for putting them on our hitlist.”

“ _I know that, lad. Calm down_.” Vesemir almost sighed. “ _He’ll only talk to you apparently, so I want you down there asap, you hear me?”_

Geralt’s eyes actually fluttered. He wanted to thank Vesemir for allowing him to keep the case and see it through this time, and not force him to abandon it as he’d done with Sudan and Renfri. Ensuring Jaskier’s safety, after everything that had happened, felt like his responsibility now for some reason, like it would redeem him.

“I’m there.” He growled.

“ _Police are already on the scene, armed response units set up, but we don’t know what the syndicate have. Like I said, they won’t talk to anyone but you. I don’t trust that crazy fucker to keep to his word and keep the hostages alive. The only thing we stand to lose in this situation is this family. Look at this_.”

Vesemir sounded grim and as Geralt’s phone pinged and as soon as the agent opened the attachment, he knew he had every right to.

The picture was a low-quality photograph taken from a camera phone. It was of a little girl. She was slight, the large hand on her neck and holding her to the camera positively dwarfing her. Her eyes were wide and wet with fear and blood clumped her delicate, blonde hair. She couldn’t have been more than eleven years old.

“ _Priscilla_.” Geralt said quietly.

“ _Hang tight, I’ll be in touch_.” Was all Vesemir said before the line went dead and the room seemed deafeningly quiet in comparison.

Geralt clenched his phone in one hand and punched the wall with the other. The entire frame of the room shook under his violent outburst and when Geralt pulled his hand back, his knuckles were freshly grazed, and blood bubbled at his knuckles, but he barely felt it.

Jaskier rushed into the living room and nearly tripped over his own feet as he came to a slamming halt in front of Geralt’s imposing frame. He was wearing the same tight jeans as before, but he’d changed his shirt to something small, more fitted, with a v-neckline. Geralt was surprised to see a heavy thatch of dark chest hair peeking out from underneath. Jaskier’s hair was still damp and just beginning to frizz where it was airdrying. It might have been the last couple of days of good nights sleep and eating well, or it might have just been Geralt’s primal brain kicking in, in a knee-jerk response to danger, but Jaskier looked _good_.

“Geralt!” He exclaimed. “What’s happened?” Jaskier’s eyes were wide and nervous, as they always were, but still so innocent from what Geralt was about to tell them. The agent was overcome with guilt and his reservations showed on his face as he lowered his bloody hand.

“Jaskier.” His voice was thick. “Sit down.”

Jaskier apprehended him wearily and made no move to sit down.

“Tell me what happened.” He repeated cautiously, already Geralt could feel him tensing up and he hated himself. He should have been able to protect him, but he couldn’t because he was useless. He rubbed his eyes, it disturbed his shoulder, and Geralt was glad it hurt.

“Damien Li and the syndicate have taken your family hostage.”

Jaskier didn’t say anything and Geralt carried on before he lost his nerve.

“They’re in your family home, or what I’m presuming is your family home, in Newcastle and they’re demanding immunity from MI6 and they’re demanding…you.”

Jaskier’s head tilted ever so slightly as his eyes hit the floor and his right hand clenched and unclenched seemingly uncontrollably.

“Jaskier, listen to me,” Geralt crossed to him, trying to calm the tell-tale beginnings of panic before they started, already his arms were reaching out for him, “nothing is going to happen to you, or them, I promise-”

“No!” Jaskier’s tone was cutting and abrasive, his hands coming up in front of himself and putting a barrier between him and Geralt.

“Jaskier, _Jesus_ , calm down.” Geralt said firmly, going against his better judgement and reaching for him again.

Something snapped in Jaskier like Geralt had never seen before and his blue eyes turned feral as the side table he was stood next to crashed to the floor, splintering on impact and sending shards of wood scattering across the living room floor.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of splintering wood that filled the living room.

Jaskier wouldn’t have been listening anyway, he was already across the room, tearing the sofa cushions apart and throwing them across the room as a litany of screams and yells of helplessness fell from his mouth. Geralt watched in pure shock for a moment before Jaskier’s hand slammed down on the coffee table. The glass shattered as Jaskier’s hand went through it and he _howled_ as the shards of glass turned scarlet.

“Fuck!” Geralt barked, striding across the room and hauling Jaskier up. Jaskier tried to struggle out of Geralt’s grip and his back collided with Geralt’s broad chest. Geralt grunted but didn’t relent, winding his arms around Jaskier’s body and blindly seizing his struggling forearms in an attempt to still him. Geralt held him steady, determined not to let himself harm himself any further.

Jaskier snarled as he gripped Geralt’s wrists with his injured hands, trying to pull them away, he pushed his back against Geralt’s chest, trying to dislodge him, to struggle out of his grip but Geralt merely wound his arms around him tighter and waited, just holding him patiently until Jaskier gave up struggling and his yells turned into low sobs and his whole body sagged against him. The hands around Geralt’s wrists were just gripping him for comfort, or maybe support.

“It’s okay.” Geralt grunted. “It’s going to be okay.”

Jaskier suddenly twisted and Geralt released his arms out of shock more than anything else as Jaskier threw his bloody hands around Geralt’s neck, pressed his face into his collarbone and sobbed.

Geralt stood mutely for a moment, unsure of what to do about the sudden heat and pressure of Jaskier pressed up against him, or the warm breath against his neck that made the small hairs there stand on end. Geralt hadn’t been this close to someone in a long time without them trying to kill him. In fact, he was hard-pressed to remember the last time he’d had warm arms around him at all, but then he did. It had been six months into the Sudan mission, he’d been dragged to some nightclub with too many bodies and too-loud music that had ended up with him in the parking lot dragging a pissed off drug-lord away from John and sending him on his way. He’d turned back to the car park, furious and tired, to find it emptied out of all spectators when the fight hadn’t been as interesting as they’d initially hoped, except for one man. He was tall, brunet and smirking at Geralt. Geralt had hoisted him up onto the bathroom sink while music bled, muffled, through the walls. The stranger had gripped Geralt’s neck and whimpered into his ear as he fucked him fast and merciless, forgetting the world for one glorious moment as he came hard and growling into the stranger’s heat. The memory bled into the present and Geralt’s mind traitorously wondered what it would be like to fuck Jaskier. All he would have to do was curl his hands around Jaskier’s ass and lift, then Jaskier’s long legs would be wrapped around his waist. Their mouths would be so close together and all Geralt would have to do was tip his head back and then their lips would be easing against each other.

Geralt shook his head minutely, cursing himself internally for thinking such a thought about someone so vulnerable at such a distressing time. He didn’t know why it had popped into his head, but he stomped it out as soon as it did. Instead, he inched his arms around Jaskier and let the flat of his palms rest against the small of his back and just stayed put as he let him cry it out and hoped that his overly-familiar touch wasn’t making him too uncomfortable.

After a while, Jaskier calmed enough that he seemed to remember himself and he released his hands from around Geralt’s neck with a pained grunt. He tried to pull back but made a small noise when he realised he was still caged protectively in Geralt’s arms. Geralt blinked at the sudden shift and let his hands fall away.

Now they were face to face, Geralt saw that Jaskier’s face was a mess of tears and anguish. Geralt cupped his cheek and used his thumb to wipe the tears from his eyes. Jaskier swallowed visibly.

“They’re going to be fine; I promise you.” Geralt murmured, stroking his thumb soothingly along Jaskier’s cheek in an attempt to keep him as calm as possible. “Do you trust me?”

Jaskier sniffed and nodded, the gentle pressure of Geralt’s hand making him shiver, like the agent was one beacon of light in the darkness that he could follow.

“I trust you.”

…

Geralt was in the bathroom, hunting down the first aid kit with one hand and reading through the transcript of the syndicate’s phone call to MI6 on his phone with the other when it started vibrating in his hand and Geralt was surprised to see Lambert’s name appear on the screen.

Geralt answered the video call immediately, not bothering to check his reflection first.

Lambert’s tired face greeted him with a big smile. He was sat against a white, leather seat which only accentuated the deep tan he was sporting after weeks of sweltering under the unforgiving Sudanese sunshine.

“ _Hey, Ger, long time no see_.”

“Hey.” Geralt sat down on the toilet lid instinctively. He felt a sudden warmth in his stomach from seeing his brother after his week of hell dealing with the syndicate. “How are you?”

“ _Good man, really good. You? You look like shit_.”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days, let me tell you.”

“ _Yeah, the old man told us. Fucking drug smuggler shot you? And tried to kill that kid that does the I.D’s?_ ” Lambert scowled. “ _What is he, like, twenty? Fucking scum. We’ll sort it, we’re on the way back now_.” Lambert turned his phone, and the screen went fuzzy for a moment before re-focusing on Eskel sat across the aisle. Eskel didn’t look up and gave the camera the middle finger.

“Are you on a plane?” Geralt’s brow furrowed.

“ _Yeah, we’ll be in England in like half an hour_.”

Geralt wasn’t as cheered by this news as Lambert seemed to be.

“What about Sudan?” He asked.

Lambert’s expression pinched and Geralt didn’t miss the way his eyes flitted over to Eskel before he spoke.

“ _Trail went cold, Ger. We lost Karraway a few days ago. There’s no sign of them in the country. Vesemir said we weren’t allowed to tell you, but I really wanted to. I’m sorry_.”

Geralt swallowed as he unceremoniously thought of Renfri, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t been on his mind anyway. Renfri was exactly the person he’d be turning to about the whole ‘Jaskier’ situation, both for her blunt advice and unwavering support. She’d know how to handle the syndicate, and she’d know how to handle the _feelings_ that kept cropping up at the most inopportune moments. She’d know exactly what to do and he wouldn’t feel as alone as he did right now. His pain must have shown on his face because Lambert was looking entirely too sympathetic.

“ _Geralt-_ ”

“It’s fine.” Geralt said. “It’s okay. You were just following orders. I’m not upset.”

“ _It’s not okay though_.” Lambert said. “ _It was your case; we shouldn’t have taken it._ ”

“ _That’s what I said_.” Came Eskel’s voice from off-camera.

Geralt pulled his hair back behind his shoulders and shook his head. He was touched by their admissions and that was why it was easier for him to tell the truth.

“It’s fine, It’s not – _fuck_ – it’s not important right now. We need to save this family.”

“ _Yeah_.” Lambert agreed. “ _How long have we got?_ ”

“The syndicate gave us twenty-four hours,” Geralt recalled the transcript in his mind. “But I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. Their demands are insane and the only leverage they have is that family.” He scowled deeply. “They have a little girl and she’s going to be terrified. The parents lost a kid under extremely similar circumstances, the psychological damage is going to be intense so the sooner we get them out, the better.”

“ _Can we have the file?_ ”

“What file?” Geralt frowned.

“ _On the family_.” Lambert explained with a quirk of his brow.

“Oh.” Geralt felt his cheeks heating up. “There is no file. They’re Jaskier’s family, this is just stuff he’s told me.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow and Geralt heard Eskel snort. His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“ _You two have been getting quite close_.”

“I’m protecting him.” Geralt bit back defensively.

“ _No, it’s a good thing_.” Lambert chuckled. “ _It means, well, can we trust him?”_

“Trust him?”

“Yeah, you know, not to give himself up to save his family? He must know tonnes about us.”

Geralt blinked. That hadn’t even occurred to him until now, and even so, it barely flitted across his mind.

“This kid has been through hell, Lamb.” He responded. “He trusts me, I mean us, to save his family and I trust him, too.”

“ _Okay, that’s good enough for me_.” Lambert said. “ _I just had to ask. We’ll pick you up in about an hour.” He paused. “It’s good to see you._ ”

“You, too.” Geralt said quietly before the videocall disconnected.

Geralt returned to Jaskier with a wet cloth, a small first aid kit and a glass of whisky.

“Here,” he muttered softly, holding the glass out to him. “It’s good for your nerves.”

Jaskier held the rim of the glass with his fingertips to avoid his sliced palms and took a measured sip from the gap between his thumb and his forefinger. He winced and coughed and Geralt smirked shallowly.

“Keep drinking.” He advised from experience.

Jaskier took another sip and Geralt sat down across from him on the couch like an exact reversal of the night before. Geralt had cleared away the glass from the coffee table but he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t missed any.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do this at the dining table?” He asked.

“No.” Jaskier replied immediately. “I’m fine here.”

Geralt didn’t question it further as he popped open the first aid kit and cleaned Jaskier’s hands gently and methodically with the wet flannel. His cuts were superficial lacerations under the crusted blood and for that, Geralt was grateful.

Jaskier was silent as he watched Geralt holding his hands in his own. Jaskier’s eyes fell over the healing cuts on Geralt’s own palms and he finally spoke.

“We match.”

Geralt’s mouth pulled up into a half-smile as he threw the bloody cloth aside.

“I was just on the phone with my friend, I mean, my colleague.” He corrected himself hastily. “We work together in the taskforce. They’re going to assist with the negotiations with the syndicate. You’ve got the full support of MI6 behind you.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked, sounding surprised.

Geralt hummed as he turned Jaskier’s hand over in his palm and looped the bandage over his thumb. He’d tied so many makeshift bandages in the field, he practically had it down to a fine art. He imagined he tied a bandage the same as Jaskier plaited hair.

“The syndicate have gone from drug smugglers to terrorists, whether they realise that or not. They’re not after anything or anyone, they just want revenge, they’re spreading _terror_ and using your family to do so, they’re at the top of the list right now. We’re going to negotiate the release of your family and then they’re going to spend the rest of their lives behind bars.”

“How are you going to negotiate?” Jaskier asked.

“We still have the four that attacked you in custody.” Geralt explained. “Some very unpleasant things can happen to them for the safety of the British public.”

Jaskier’s eyes wavered and Geralt knew he shouldn’t have been telling him this. It could land them both in a lot of trouble but Jaskier was already at the eye of the storm. It was his family and his life on the line, not Geralt’s or Vesemir’s or any of the government’s. Geralt didn’t plan on withholding any information from him when he deserved to know.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

Geralt tightened the knot around Jaskier’s hand before he looked up at him, his eyes darker than they had been before.

“Then I’ll kill them all.”

Geralt wanted to say he imagined it, but he was sure he saw Jaskier smile.

…

Jaskier was nursing the remains of his whisky with his bandaged hands when there was a knock at the door.

Geralt checked his gun and glanced through the peephole purely as a precaution before he opened the door and was knocked unceremoniously to the floor. Geralt barely had time to utter out a curse before Eskel’s entire body weight was on top of him. He kneed him directly in the stomach as retaliation and Eskel just laughed.

Jaskier jumped to his feet in alarm and nearly dropped his glass before he set it down and darted into the hallway to find Geralt on the floor wrestling a strong man with shoulder-length black hair, before another man shut the front door and apprehended the pair of them on the floor despairingly.

“Eskel, he has a hole in his back.” He reminded his partner disapprovingly before rolling his eyes and turning his attentions to Jaskier. He was a tall, broad man with a head of closely cropped black hair and a stern expression. He wore a black suit, just like Geralt, with the exception that the first few buttons of his white shirt were undone and contrasted with his deep tan. He looked tired but he smiled as he held a hand out to Jaskier.

“You must be Jaskier. We haven’t officially met but I know you’ve been doing a lot of important work for us. I’m Agent Lambert Lunis, that idiot on the floor tackling your bodyguard is Agent Eskel Capra. We work with Geralt in the taskforce.”

“Oh.” Jaskier palmed his thighs nervously. “N-nice to meet you.”

Lambert noticed the bandages on Jaskier’s hands and let his own drop.

“Looks like you’ve had a hell of a week, kid.” He said softly. There was something wrong about seeing someone so young and innocent injured because of their work. He understood Geralt’s unwavering trust in the kid a bit more just from the sight of him.

Geralt sprang to his feet and hauled Eskel up with him. Jaskier expected Geralt to explode with rage and was surprised when instead he pulled Eskel in for a hug.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He said gruffly.

Lambert grasped Geralt’s arm and Geralt smiled in greeting and Jaskier felt like he was intruding on some private family moment. Seeing Geralt as the giver and receiver of such warmth made his stomach sink like he’d just swallowed a brick. All he wanted was to be with his family, to hold his sister just as Geralt was being held. He swallowed as a tremor of panic shot through him.

“Do you know anything about my family?” He asked them softly.

The three of them broke apart, looking guilty for having a moment of joy in the dire time. Lambert glanced at Geralt, knowing he had new information for the both of them.

“Police are surrounding your house, Jaskier.” Lambert explained. “They have a negotiator at the scene, I was just on the phone with him. Your family are fine, but their demands haven’t changed.”

“Li wants to talk to you, Ger.” Eskel said grimly, folding his arms. “We’ve got the jet waiting. Come with us and leave Jaskier here until this is over.”

Geralt nodded and was already turned for the door when Jaskier shook his head.

“No, you can’t leave me here.” Jaskier frowned, a note of panic in his voice.

“Jaskier…” Geralt tried reproachfully.

“No, I want to go with you.” Jaskier said surprisingly firmly. “You’re the one I trust.”

Geralt had to put effort into hiding the smile trying to break out on his face from the other two but he approached Jaskier regardless.

“I have to go.” He said gently. “If I don’t, then Li could do anything to your family. Sometimes we have to make them think we agree with them to manipulate them.” _Predators of a different kind_.

“Then I’m coming with you.” Jaskier said without missing a beat, that familiar concentration in his eyes like a flip had switched. It was then that Geralt realised he would have made a good agent.

“No.” Geralt replied firmly. “It took a lot of effort to get you here. I’m not putting you in harm’s way again.”

“I can help you.” Jaskier replied. “Besides, I’m the only person who knows where they live.” He quipped before he was past Geralt, scooping his trainers up and out of the door.

Eskel raised an eyebrow at Geralt before raising his hand and mimicking a whip being brought down.

Geralt scowled, shoved Eskel hard and was out of the door and after Jaskier.


	10. wolf pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for the little delay. I went on a nice little holiday with the famalam and haven’t been too well lately. Merry Christmas! Also, a lil cameo if you spot him 😊

Chapter Ten

_wolf pack_

They arrived at the media circus that passed for Jaskier’s family home less than an hour later.

It was a detached, two-storey house with an oak front door. Almost the entire front of the first storey was a large bay window with the curtains drawn that Jaskier had informed them was the living room. Sat out front was a luxurious garden with green grass and rose bushes grown intricately around the wooden fence that caged the garden in. It looked like something out of a fairy tale and yet the grandeur was ruined somewhat by the chaos on the street outside.

Police tape had been drawn around the garden fence and the garish yellow clashed with the picturesque pink petals in an obscene way. Jaskier counted six police cars, one riot van and twenty-seven officers, from uniformed to plain-clothed, dotted around their vehicles. A gaggle of journalists and camera men were being tussled away from the scene by police and as far away from Jaskier’s house as possible.

Worryingly, an armed response unit was set up a metre from the garden fence. Six men in black uniforms knelt by mounted rifles pointed towards the large bay window and front door, poised and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Tucked away at the very back, behind all of the commotion, the tires tearing up the turf of another garden, was a large but unassuming black van.

“This is us.” Lambert said, leading them around the back of the black vehicle. The double doors were open, metal-grating steps leading up to the back of the van. Lambert took them two at a time and Eskel followed, leaving Geralt and Jaskier on either side of the metal steps, looking at each other.

Geralt gestured with one hand for Jaskier to go first and Jaskier swallowed but complied. He’d been quiet and withdrawn since they’d arrived, which wasn’t unusual for him, but Geralt knew the kid was under an inordinate amount of stress and he was cautiously waiting for Jaskier’s anxiety catch up with him and for him to break down again. He prayed Jaskier comprehended the delicate nature of the situation and kept it together. He kept his eyes on the small of Jaskier’s back as he followed him up the steps and wanted to reach a hand out and press it there comfortingly, a metaphorical support, but he didn’t.

Geralt was last in the van and none-too-surprised at what was inside. The large space was filled with desks and computers, the bright lights of the monitors and the clacking of fingers on keys an assault on the senses which ironically calmed Jaskier’s nerves. Blinking lights from various pieces of hardware glowed harshly in the poorly lit space and immediately it reminded Geralt of Jaskier’s flat.

Three white-coated technical support officers were sat at the desks, typing away and conversing among themselves, but they all turned to look as the agent’s walked in. A young woman with glasses turned around in her chair and blinked at the sight of them.

“You made it.” She said humourlessly. “There hasn’t been any change all morning.” She explained. “No one’s moved inside or out.”

Jaskier took a bold step forward and peered at one of the monitors, comforted somewhat by the familiar set up. From the various screens crowded on the monitor and the static images projected on them, it looked like they’d rigged the security cameras up and down the street and turned them towards the house. It was an affluent neighbourhood, and the security was high-tech and plentiful, but it still didn’t assist them with anything going on _inside_ the house. Jaskier’s eyes narrowed and he tried to open his mouth but Eskel beat him to it.

“Where’s the negotiator?” Eskel asked.

“On the street, with the armed response unit.” Another technician offered without looking up from his monitor. “They won’t talk to him, only MI6, well,” he nodded to Geralt, “Agent Rivia.”

Geralt rolled his eyes before a hard look settled over his face and he turned back to the open doors, stretching out his neck and shivering quietly at the spark of pain it sent down his healing shoulder.

“Let me go and say hi.”

He almost collided with Jaskier who was stood directly behind him, looking up at him with a worried expression that did _something_ to the agent he didn’t entirely agree with.

“Stay here.” He said quietly, wishing it sounded less like a question.

Jaskier nodded and Geralt squashed the modicum of relief it briefly afforded him as he twisted around him and jogged down the metal steps.

A group of officers nodded to him as he strode over to the armed response unit and none of them looked up from their mounted rifles to the newcomer. A quick glance told Geralt that at least three of them had clear shots at the bay window but with the curtains drawn, it was impossible to know if the room was occupied or to guarantee the safety of the hostages.

Geralt picked the man in the expensive suit out of crowd immediately and made a beeline for him, pulling his badge from his breast pocket and flashing it.

“Geralt Rivia, Anti-Terrorism Taskforce.” He said gruffly.

“James Barnes.” The negotiator offered back just as brashly.

“Talk to me.”

“Their demands are nice and simple.” Barnes responded with a roll of his eyes. “Just diplomatic immunity and a twenty-year-old.”

“Twenty-four. I don’t know why they want him, they’d get more information from me, or anyone else.” It was a rhetorical question, but Barnes answered anyway.

“Revenge?” He supplied simply. “They probably blame him for all this.”

“Hmm.” Geralt scowled. “Can I talk to them?”

“Be my guest.” Barnes responded, pulling an iphone from his pocket, pressing dial and handing it to Geralt.

Geralt held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring for a few moments and watched as the curtain at the bay window twitched imperceptibly in response. The phone line was answered but Geralt didn’t give the recipient a chance to respond.

“This is Agent Rivia, tell me what you want and let that family go.”

“ _I think you know what I want_.” Geralt recognised Li’s voice from their brief encounter in the warehouse barely a week previously.

“I think you know you’re not going to get it.” Geralt’s voice was hard. “There isn’t a universe where MI6 take a step back and let you carry on doing what you’re doing. You’ve fucked up, Li, admit it.”

“ _I want the kid as well, don’t forget_.”

“I’m not playing your game.” Geralt near-growled, keeping his eyes on the window but the curtain didn’t move again. “We have four of your men in custody. Release the hostages or I guarantee you’ll never see them again and we’ll extract all the information we need to dismantle every fucking thing you’ve set up.”

Li laughed down the phone and Geralt clenched his fist.

“ _Bold words when I have hostages and you don’t. What’s to stop me unloading my gun into their heads?”_

And there it was. The truth. Damien Li and his drug-peddling syndicate were just that – drug-peddlers. They weren’t terrorists. Li was inexperienced, and most of all, he was scared. Geralt’s twenty-years of anti-terrorism experience straightened his spine and he responded with confidence.

“Nothing.” He said honestly. It was a dangerous line, negotiation, but one Geralt had danced along for several years. He was a predator of a different kind. “You can kill them right here and now and I can’t stop you _._ But the minute you cross that line and kill those innocent people, there will be nothing on this planet that can save you from me.”

The phone line went silent and Geralt waited with a tremor in his heart.

“ _You know my demands_.” Li said aggressively. “ _I want MI6 off our backs, and I want that fucking kid, or I start with the little girl first._ ”

The phone line went dead and Geralt passed the phone silently back to Barnes before heading back to the van. He wasn’t angry or even perturbed by Li’s threats, because the syndicate leader had just given him more than he’d realised.

The three technicians were concentrating their full attentions on the monitors, Eskel and Lambert were sat on the edge of one of the desks and quietly conversing between themselves while Jaskier leant against the metal frame of one of the ‘walls’ and stared off into his own world. All of them looked up when Geralt walked back in.

“What happened?” Lambert asked, standing and crossing his arms.

“He’s mad.” Geralt responded, mirroring his brother and crossing his arms stiffly. His shoulder complained but not nearly as badly as before. “He doesn’t _want_ anything, except maybe control.” He shook his head. “We can’t negotiate, not in my opinion.”

“There’s one option.” Jaskier’s voice was desolate, his eyes still staring off into the distance and Geralt knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I could hand myself over.”

“Not an option.” Geralt responded immediately.

“It’s pointless.” Eskel chipped in a little heartlessly, because he was coming from a logistical point of view and wasn’t compromised like Geralt. “It doesn’t solve anything. You know enough that they could torture out of you for us to gain nothing now by handing you over.”

Lambert gave him a look.

“Not that I was going to!” Eskel said. “I’m just saying, it’s not practical.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked back and forth in panic and Geralt could see it coming a mile off and he stepped towards him instinctively, his hands were injured enough.

“What do we do?” He asked hurriedly.

“We go in.” Geralt said simply.

“But there’s like twenty of them in there.” Jaskier looked startled. “You’ll be killed, you’ll all be killed.”

Geralt, Eskel and Lambert shared a look.

“There are British citizens in that house. We have a moral and legal obligation to retrieve them safely.”

“But,” Jaskier’s voice was shaking. He didn’t have a counterargument, but he disagreed regardless. “I can’t lose you, as well.”

Something in Geralt’s chest twinged in the same way his shoulder did. He could feel Eskel and Lambert’s eyes on him and the atmosphere suddenly felt thick and heavy like syrup.

“I’ve got to, Jask.”

Jaskier’s eyes left his and it felt like betrayal. Instead, his eyes darted around the room before focusing on the monitor in front of him and his eyes narrowed with the same expression of monomaniacal concentration he’d shown when putting together fake ID’s, or fixing up Geralt himself.

“I have an idea.” His voice was stoic and breathless, like he’d forgotten to breathe in, in his concentration. “I can help.”

“How?” Lambert asked with a furrowed brow.

“My parents have cameras.” He explained, his eyes still focused on the street cameras on the computer monitor. “In every room.” He looked between the agents. “I can hack into them from here.” His eyes found Geralt’s before he gestured to the monitor. “Then I can direct you inside.”

“Why do your folks have such a high level of security?” Eskel’s frown was deep and almost untrustworthy.

“We were burgled a lot when I was younger.” Was all Jaskier offered and Geralt said nothing. “It sends a signal to the police if there’s a forced entry. The police probably knew before the syndicate contacted anyone, there was just too many of them for it to be a police thing.”

Eskel shook his head.

“Can you even hack it in time?” He looked down at his watch. “We don’t have bags of time.”

“Yes.” Jaskier replied bluntly and Geralt licked his lips to hide his smirk. Eskel and Lambert shared an uneasy look but Geralt cut across the atmosphere like a knife through warm butter.

“Let’s do it.” He said. “It’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“Vesemir is going to kill you.” Eskel pointed out.

“For what?” Lambert asked. “Doing the most appropriate thing in the time constraints?”

Eskel glared at them for a long moment before he rolled his eyes.

“Fine, okay, let’s do it.” He said gruffly, tapping one of the technicians on the shoulder. He vacated his seat and Jaskier sat in his chair, pulling the keyboard towards himself before typing exponentially more quickly than the technician before him. Software none of them had heard of before began downloading across all three monitors, multiple bars filling green at high speed.

“Wait, the firewall-” the female technician with the glasses frowned.

“Disabled it.” Jaskier interrupted as he brought up a dialog box and began typing out a string of code. “Each of the cameras has a twelve-digit serial number,” his eyes never left the monitor. “If you integrate them into this tracking software then theoretically you can access the cameras even though we’re out of range of Mum and Dad’s WiFi signal…” The downloading software reached 100% and Jaskier ran it immediately. It opened into an empty dialog box and he wasted no time typing line after line of twelve-digit numbers as the technician’s watched in silence.

“What are you typing in?” Eskel asked, putting his hand on the desk beside Jaskier and leaning forward. Jaskier didn’t even blink.

“The serial numbers.”

“But…where are you getting them from?” He glanced at Jaskier.

“I saw the box once.” Was all Jaskier said, as if it was a response.

Lambert frowned and looked at Geralt and Geralt merely shook his head in response. They all watched in silence for another few moments, the only noises in the air the clacking of keyboard keys, before a dozen black and white live-feeds spread out across all three monitors, showing every room in Jaskier’s home. Immediately, they could see members of the syndicate dotted around the house. Some were carrying guns, others looked unharmed. At a count, Jaskier made fourteen.

It was the living room that commanded everyone’s attention and Jaskier maximised the screen. A man and a woman sat on the floor, tied back to back, and a small girl sat perched on the end of one of the couches with her back to the camera. Damien Li crouched beside Jaskier’s parents while six men stood around them.

Jaskier gulped but otherwise said nothing.

“Jesus Christ,” Eskel slapped Jaskier roughly on the shoulder and near-enough sent the poor kid across the desk. “Good work, kid.”

…

Geralt, Eskel and Lambert ducked into the back garden, their guns held low and ready. The garden was a vast green space lined with rose bushes with a stone bird fountain in the centre and a glass conservatory swelling from the back of the house.

Eskel and Lambert stayed behind Geralt and Lambert took the opportunity to pull his earpiece from his ear and tap Geralt on the back.

“What the fuck was that?” He demanded quietly before Geralt even had a chance to look around.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stayed where he was, he didn’t move except to softly turn off his earpiece so Jaskier wouldn’t hear his quiet response:

“He has an eidetic memory.” He explained. “Now get your head in the game and, you know, don’t play any _Eminem_.”

“What-?”

But Geralt had already switched his earpiece on and Jaskier’s voice rang out clear as day.

“ _The conservatory is clear_.” He said and none of them reacted in any discernible way. Geralt kept his eyes trained on the glass in case any bodies did appear. “ _Go in through the back and stay put ‘til I say different_.” If Geralt weren’t focused on the mission at hand, he would have smiled at Jaskier’s bold confidence.

Geralt gestured one-handed and Lambert and Eskel followed him by the glass door of the conservatory. Geralt dropped to his knees and picked the lock quickly, knowing that if a syndicate member wandered out into the conservatory, they’d be seen through the glass instantly. The door clicked open and Geralt ushered them inside.

The conservatory wasn’t particularly large, and the small space was confined even further by patio furniture and a set of wicker chairs stacked neatly against the wall. It was cut off from the rest of the house by a single, closed door.

“ _Stay very quiet_.” Jaskier said immediately. “ _The next room is the dining room and two of them are sat at the table. Just…stay there until they move?_ ”

The three of them shared a brief look and Jaskier watched in silent surprise as they crept quietly through the door. Both of the syndicate members were sat at the dining room table and Geralt wrapped his arm around the throat of the nearest one before they’d even noticed them. Lambert slammed the butt of his gun into the face of the other and caught him as he dropped.

A tremor of panic shot through Jaskier for their safety, but he forced himself to calm, to look away from them when he wanted to keep an eye on them to watch the other camera’s for movement. They didn’t need Jaskier’s concern, they needed his eyes.

Jaskier knew the layout of his home without the cameras and his eyes trailed over the hallway outside of the dining room and to the kitchen, his father’s study and the living room where his parents sat tied on the same spot his brother had been murdered on. His sister still sat on the couch with her back to the camera and the syndicate were crawling everywhere like vermin.

His eyes moved back to the dining room where the three agents stood over the two unconscious syndicate members and relief flooded him.

“Outside that door is a hallway, to the right is the kitchen, there are two men inside, to the left is the study, three in there. Straight ahead is the…the living room, there are seven in there.”

“I’ll take the kitchen.” Eskel murmured. “Lamb, study. Ger, stay here and keep an eye on the bodies and anyone else who turns up. We’ll take the hive together.”

“Oi!” Geralt was whispering but his indignation was still thick. “I’m not just waiting here!”

Lambert surprised Geralt by grasping his good shoulder.

“Geralt, you’re injured and you’re only here because Jaskier is yours. If I had my way, you’d be home or in a hospital bed and that’s not because I don’t want you with me, because I do, but because someone has to look after your ass when you refuse to, so just stay put, please.” Lambert said this all very quickly and quietly, speaking far too low for Jaskier to hear the obviously heavy exchange between the two men.

Geralt didn’t appear to respond but something must have been said quietly between them because Geralt backed down and took a step back while Lambert and Eskel stole out of the room. Part of Jaskier could hardly believe that this was the same man who’d tried to drive to Coventry with a bullet in his shoulder or the same man who’d dived into a four-on-one gun fight and survived. In the whole time Jaskier had known him, Geralt had seemed a little…reckless. Maybe reckless was the wrong word, but he did seem to have very little regard for his own safety. Jaskier hadn’t pried because it wasn’t his place, but from what little he knew about Sudan, the mission had ruptured something inside Geralt to the point where it didn’t seem like he cared whether he lived or died. To watch him take a step back while his fighting-fit brothers took charge felt _cathartic_ somehow.

Lambert made quick work of the study and Jaskier turned his head just in time to see Eskel stood beside the kitchen door, his gun disappearing into his shoulder holster. Jaskier cocked his head as he watched the agent dive into the kitchen unarmed. One of the syndicate was leant against the wall by the door and the other had his head stuck in the fridge.

Eskel was lightning fast. He slammed the fridge door shut and the syndicate member’s neck muffled the sound. The other jumped Eskel from behind and Eskel struggled against the hold around him for a moment before his elbow lashed out and smashed into the syndicate member’s face; he collapsed back to the floor and Eskel twirled, wrapping his thick fingers around his throat.

The other syndicate member extracted himself from the fridge and grabbed an errant corkscrew from the countertop and lashed for Eskel’s neck from behind.

“ _Eskel!”_ Jaskier barked. “ _Behind you!”_

Eskel spun at the last second, his hand enclosing around the syndicate member’s wrist and disarming him. The corkscrew clattered to the ground and Eskel ducked for it, missing the syndicate member’s fist before coming up, corkscrew in hand, and burying it in his shoulder.

Jaskier winced and looked away and when he looked back, the syndicate member was on the floor with a pool of blood around him, and Eskel had his thumb up at the camera.

…

Geralt was impatient.

He’d leant against the dining room table and crossed his arms, keeping his furious eyes on the door and tapping his fingers against his biceps. Neither of them had been gone long enough for him to worry, and Jaskier hadn’t said anything, but he was still pissed. He’d been grounded when Jaskier’s family were practically on the other side of the door. He’d been tempted to just kick the damn thing down but Jaskier could see him and he knew Jaskier would never forgive him for doing anything to put his family in danger. Instead, he waited.

The door handle turned and Geralt was back on his feet immediately with his gun raised.

“ _It’s Eskel_.” Jaskier’s voice cut across and Geralt eased.

The door opened and Eskel peeked his head through. He had blood on his sleeve.

“You okay?” Geralt mouthed, nodding at it.

Eskel nodded and jerked his head for Geralt to follow him outside.

Jaskier watched the three of them gather outside of the living room. Geralt pressed his ear against it and whispered something Jaskier couldn’t hear. Jaskier looked at the living room camera. Damien Li was leant down next to his mother and Priscilla was still on the couch with two others. The other four were lurking by the window and risking glances out.

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat as he looked at the three outnumbered men outside who were willing to die to save his family, feeling like he was sending them to their deaths.

“No one is near the door.” He said softly. “Four by the window, two on the couch by the wall, Li next to my…my mum.”

Geralt’s eyes flicked up to the camera and Jaskier felt like he was looking right at him, maybe for the last time, and Geralt held up his hand, his fingers pointed like a gun.

“ _They’ve all got guns, Geralt_.” Jaskier all but whispered.

Geralt nodded, smiled gently, and turned back to the others. There was a moment of heavy silence before Geralt kicked the door down. The top hinge splintered, and the door swung uselessly, giving them full access to the living room. Lambert dived in from the right, Eskel from the left and Geralt came in last, standing between them and raising his gun. After that, everything happened very quickly.

The room erupted into a cacophony of shouts and movement. Damien Li rose fluidly to his feet, pointing his gun at the head of a middle-aged woman on the floor, tied with rope back to back with her husband. They both wailed in unison.

Another syndicate member lurched forward and seized Priscilla from the couch. She shrieked against her gag and thrashed in his arms as he held her tight to his chest. Her blonde hair was matted to her face with blood.

The remaining five stood, backs against the wall, and raised their guns until they were all in stalemate.

“Drop your weapons.” Li snarled. “Or I shoot.”

To make his point, he shoved his gun-barrel against Jaskier’s mother’s temple. She screamed, so did her husband and so did Jaskier. He gripped the sides of the desk painfully hard as he watched helplessly.

“ _Geralt_.” He managed to whimper. The scene unfolding before him on the monitor dragged up each and every recollection he had of the night Valdo had died and his anxiety was at fever-pitch. It felt like the universe were punishing him for not dying that night. The only thing Jaskier had in the world right now, the only thing standing between his sanity and his ruination, was Geralt Rivia.

If Geralt heard his helpless plea, he made no visible reaction and Jaskier had to appreciate that, because it meant that he was on the case.

“Please, please save my baby!” Jaskier’s mother sobbed helplessly. “Not again, please-“

Li snarled and slammed the butt of his gun against her head and she slumped unconscious. Jaskier’s father snarled.

“ _Bryony_! You fucks! I swear to god, I’m going to kill you!”

Li wasn’t listening. Instead, he released the safety off his gun and gestured across the room.

“Bring me the girl.” He said, not taking his eyes off the agents.

Jaskier’s father’s cries of protest fell on deaf ears as the syndicate member holding Priscilla crossed the room and deposited her screaming form into Li’s free arm. Geralt, Eskel and Lambert watched silently as Li raised his gun to her head.

It was a mirror to what had happened to Jaskier when that burglar had held him in his arms and pressed that knife to his throat. Jaskier had often wondered what had possessed Valdo to run for him so recklessly, to put himself in danger like that, but now Jaskier knew, irrevocably, he would do the same.

“Drop your weapons, or the girl dies.”

Geralt held his hands up, his gun falling expertly back against his thumb and Li appeared to relax somewhat.

Geralt stepped forward slowly and Li tightened his grip on Priscilla. She screamed and her father moaned somewhere behind them. Geralt stilled.

“Stay right there!” Li spat, fear clear in his voice.

“Li, it’s over.” Geralt said softly, his eyes never leaving the gun against Priscilla’s head. He stayed far back as he walked to the bay window with slow, measured steps. He drew the curtain back one-handed and the glare of blue lights penetrated the room. The syndicate members shared glances.

“This building is surrounded.” Geralt explained. “You can kill us all but you’re still not getting out. I think you know that.”

“How the fuck is that supposed to help you?” Li challenged aggressively, his gun still pressed against Priscilla’s head, but his eyes were glued to the chaos of police cars and officers outside of the window.

“Because you’ll be arrested for kidnap.” Geralt explained gently, raising his hands again in surrender, his gun still lax against his thumb. “But if you kill that little girl, you’ll never see the outside of a prison cell. You may even be extradited back to the US where a death penalty is waiting for you. Do you understand?”

Li’s eyes wavered in hesitation.

“ _We don’t have a shot_.” The commander of the armed response unit announced grimly over the comms. “ _Without risking the girl_.”

_Come on, Geralt_. Jaskier thought as he stared at the screen, his heart beating so fast he almost couldn’t hear the comms. Geralt, however, did.

Geralt blinked before he slowly bent down, keeping his eyes on Li, and laid his gun on the floor, when he came back up, his arms were free and extended out.

“Give her to me, Li, end this. I’ve dealt with terrorists and murderers my entire career, you’re neither. I can see that.”

There was a moment of silence as Li looked around his men. Some looked pissed off, others unsure, all looked to him for guidance. He sighed heavily and aggressively as he lowered his gun to his side.

“Stand down.” He said quietly and it was like a rope of tension snapped in the room. Two syndicate members dropped their guns, more simply stepped back, all looked _relieved_ and Geralt was grateful this hadn’t ended in a bloodbath.

Li stepped forward and Priscilla wailed in his arms and Geralt grabbed her as she was thrust against him, his arms wrapping protectively around her small frame as he backed off as far away from Li as possible. She weighed practically nothing in his arms and it tore something in Geralt as she sobbed into his chest.

“Stay where you are!” Eskel held his gun high to Li’s head as he crowded in on him and Li glared at him as he raised his hands slowly above his head. On Geralt’s right hand side, Lambert strode forward, gun aloft, and knelt beside Jaskier’s parents.

“Mr Pancratz, my name is Agent Lunis, you’re going to be okay.” He said gently.

“My daughter,” Evan Pancratz’ words came out in a panicked breath. “My wife-”

Lambert pressed his fingers to Bryony’s pulse point, his eyes exploring the blossoming bruise on her forehead and relaxing when he felt a steady thump beneath the pads of his fingers.

“She’s okay.” He said. “They’re both just fine.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” Evan breathed out as Lambert began untying the ropes that bound them.

Geralt tilted Priscilla’s head back and removed the gag from her mouth with steady hands. He pushed her blonde hair back to see the cut on her forehead was shallow and dark with drying blood.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He murmured softly, wiping the tears from her eyes. Her small hands gripped his bicep with a surprising amount of strength and her weeping eyes were the same blue as Jaskier’s. “You’re safe.”

She collapsed back against his chest, sobbing anew and Geralt felt relief flood through him as officers swarmed in behind him and the syndicate members were apprehended and cuffed. A paramedic tapped Geralt on the shoulder and he turned, handing Priscilla over to the paramedic gratefully. Priscilla was reluctant to let him go and it took some soft urging to release her. The paramedic disappeared out of the room with Priscilla in her arms and Geralt caught Lambert in the corner of his eye with one arm around Evan Pancratz as his wife was mounted on a stretcher.

Eskel kept his gun at Damien Li’s eye level as an officer handed him a pair of cuffs, all it took was the split second of Eskel fiddling with the handcuffs for Li to act. Eskel grunted in a mixture of shock and pain as Li’s forehead connected with his nose. Eskel backed off, blinded by pain, as Li’s hands enclosed around his gun and pointed straight at Geralt’s back.

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier _shrieked_. Geralt didn’t wince at the inhuman noise in his earpiece, but he did spin faster than the speed of light. Eskel was on the floor and clutching at his face, Damien Li was glaring at him and a solid piece of lead was speeding towards him.

The shot shattered the bay window with precision before it embedded in Damien Li’s neck. He was dead before he hit the ground and Eskel cursed and rolled out of the way before the corpse could collapse on top of him.

Geralt grunted as the bullet shredded the flesh of his bicep and he collapsed down onto one knee. The pain in his arm was like heat radiating in barbed spirals through his muscles. Eskel was at his side in a flash, tearing the ruins of his jacket away from his arm and inspecting his wound. Geralt grit his teeth to stop from making a sound.

“What the fuck happened?” He instead growled.

“Li shot you.” Eskel put pressure on Geralt’s wound. “He got my gun. Fuck – it’s okay – it’s a graze.”

Geralt’s eyes settled on Li’s body on the floor and the blood staining the carpet around his head. His body was framed by shards of shattered glass.

“Guess they got their shot.”

“Thank fuck you turned around,” Eskel babbled, “he could have killed you and it’s all my fault.”

Geralt shook his head and fisted the front of Eskel’s jacket. Jaskier was strangely quiet and Geralt allowed himself to be manhandled to his feet by Eskel and helped out of the living room. They passed Lambert outside who was leant against a police car and talking to the officer pushing a syndicate member in the backseat. His eyes widened at Geralt and he hesitated to go back to his conversation.

Eskel led Geralt over to a cluster of three ambulances parked about fifty yards from the house. Evan and Bryony Pancratz were sat in the back of one, wearing orange shock blankets while a paramedic dabbed gently at Bryony’s forehead. She was conscious and gently stroking her daughter’s hair where she sat in her father’s lap, a white plaster on her forehead.

…

Jaskier stared blankly at the equally blank monitors, just as he’d done for the last half an hour. They were alive, he had to keep reminding himself like he couldn’t quite believe it was true. His parents, Priscilla, Geralt, even him, they were all okay. Damien Li was dead. It was _over_. So why did he feel so empty?

A light tap to his shoulder made him jolt.

“Come on,” the female technician with the glasses said gently. “You can’t stay in here all night. The de-brief will be here soon.”

Jaskier blinked before pressing his palms against the desk and pushing himself out of his seat. He felt like he was only half in his body, and every step he took to the door of the van felt like someone else was taking it for him.

He slowly made his way down the metal grating and his anxiety grew with each step. The street was ablaze with police cars and flashing lights and ambulances and bodies and cameras. Then, beyond it all, was his home. It looked wrong framed by such disaster. He’d thought about being stood here many times over the last few years, sometimes it was the only thing he wanted, but right now it was the very last place he wanted to be.

He hovered awkwardly by the metal steps of the van, unsure exactly where he was meant to go and what he was meant to do, and he looked around the street for anyone he recognised.

Bryony Pancratz didn’t know why she looked around, and she never would, but her eyes fell on the unassuming black van on the other side of the street and on the unassuming young man stood beside it.

“Julian?” She asked quietly.

She stood, the blanket falling from her shoulders, and walked straight past the paramedics like a woman possessed.

She barely even looked at his face before she was wrapping her arms around her son.

Jaskier stood stock still as his brain stuttered – then before he knew what he was doing, his bandaged hands were on her back and everything in the world fell apart.

“ _Mum_.” He was crying so readily it was like he’d been crying for hours without realising. “I’m sorry.”

“None of that, baby.” She whispered into his neck. “I’ve got you. You’re home.”

Jaskier buried his head into her neck, losing himself in the warmth and comfort of her familiar embrace before he opened his wet eyes to the street behind her. His father was looking at him from the ambulance, Priscilla sat in his lap, and Geralt perched beside them all as a paramedic attended to his arm.

His gaze locked with Geralt’s instinctively, and although half of his face was concealed by his mother’s shoulder, his wide and nervous eyes smiled – saying something words couldn’t.


	11. disquiet discontent

Chapter Eleven

_disquiet discontent_

The sky was dark by the time the street had cleared. It stood empty and eerily quiet, the only sounds were the odd wood pigeon hooting distantly, and it seemed unnaturally still after the day’s events.

Jaskier had been told, in passing, that Agent Morhen, the head of the Anti-Terrorism Task Force, wanted to talk to him so he’d stuck around for a while with the police cars, but with everything going on, he was very low on MI6’s list of priorities and soon enough, an officer had offered him a lift to the hospital to see his family. He was a nice guy, chatting away about Damien Li’s previous incarceration in America and Jaskier had listened politely, but his head was a thousand miles away.

The hospital had decided to keep the Pancratz’ in for the night to keep them under observation, mentally as well as physically. Jaskier knew his parents would be similarly affected – what happened had dredged up enough about Valdo and the night he’d died that Jaskier had a perpetual tremor in his right hand that he couldn’t stop. A nurse had checked his blood pressure and his heart rate and given him something to calm him down, although Jaskier itched for something else, his hand did still against his thigh as she told him about his family.

His father was unharmed while his mother had a concussion from being knocked out, both had been similarly medicated to Jaskier and Jaskier had to be grateful they were okay. The nurse led him to the children’s ward and smiled at him to go inside. He’d spent the rest of the day lying in one of the beds with Priscilla snuggled against him. She’d slept most of the time, and he’d run his hands through her soft, blonde hair in what he’d hoped was a comforting motion, avoiding the bandage around her head. She stirred around midnight, her eyelids fluttering open and regarding him and Jaskier had been gripped with fear that she would panic, that she wouldn’t recognise him, or worse, she would and wouldn’t want him around her. She was eleven years old now and old enough to comprehend that he had left her. He waited for the hurt, the rejection, but it never came. Instead, her eyes searched his for a moment before they lit up in understanding and she burst into tears. He could only panic for a moment before she was holding him as tightly as her small arms would allow, which, as it turned out, was pretty tight indeed.

After the initial shock, they began to speak softly, and it was one of the more bizarre experiences of Jaskier’s life. She spoke to him like she was an adult, and he couldn’t quite merge the two images of his sister he had in his head. He knew her so well yet simultaneously didn’t know her at all. He’d missed the important years of her life, but right now he just couldn’t bring himself to be sad about it. She was safe and she was here and that was all that mattered

They didn’t talk about what happened, nor had Jaskier mentioned his involvement or precisely why they’d been targeted. She still had some innocence left and he planned to protect it as long as he could. He wouldn’t let that be stolen from her as it had been from him when he was a boy, or at the very least, he wouldn’t be the one to do it.

Soon the conversation slowed, and Jaskier was sure she’d fallen back to sleep. Her head was jammed under his armpit and she herself was affixed to the heart monitor as she draped over him and Jaskier resigned himself to simply closing his eyes.

“The man who saved me,” she finally said sleepily, her eyes still closed, “he was bleeding.”

Jaskier opened his eyes again and glanced down at her blonde head, he let his fingertips glide over her arm as he recalled the bandage around Geralt’s arm by the ambulance.

“His name is Geralt.” Jaskier murmured softly. “Was…was he hurt?”

She nodded against his chest and he felt it more than he saw it.

“I hope he’s okay.”

“Of course, he will be.” Jaskier told himself as he much as her. “He’ll be fine.”

…

Jaskier watched the coffee machine beep and pour dark liquid in the polystyrene cup. He left Priscilla to sleep and the clock on the wall told him it was nearly 1am. He blinked slowly as he dumped a wad of sugar packets into his coffee and stirred it as he made his way upstairs to his parents’ ward.

He was surprised to find Geralt lurking in the corridor outside the ward. The usually so impeccably dressed agent was stripped down to black slacks and a white t shirt stretched over his muscular torso, he looked like something from the front of a fitness magazine. He had a bandage around his bicep with a small patch of drying blood visible in the centre and his light hair was down and draped clean down his back. Jaskier almost didn’t recognise him.

“Hey.” Jaskier said as he approached, squeezing his polystyrene cup so tight it dented around his fingers. His greeting came out low. Maybe it was the ward, maybe the time of night, or maybe just that familiar relief at seeing Geralt that calmed him.

Geralt turned to him and his eyes were uncharacteristically slack. He looked tired.

“Hey, yourself.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and crossed the small space until they were face to face, still managing to tower over Jaskier despite the miniscule difference in their heights.

Jaskier swallowed as he looked up at him, bringing his coffee to his lips.

“I didn’t know you were here; I’d have got you one, too.”

Geralt smiled amusedly at him.

“Thanks, I’m pretty tanked up on adrenaline still, I think a coffee might send me over the edge.”

Jaskier laughed, it was an awkward, quiet sound that didn’t belong to him. He wanted to say so many things to Geralt. He wanted to tell him that he was grateful, that he was sorry, that he was glad to have met him but, worst of all, there was a traitorously small part of him that was sad it was over. He didn’t have an excuse to have Geralt in his life anymore. Jaskier had gained a lot of things today, but he couldn’t help feeling like he’d lost something else, as well.

“You hurt?” He finally nodded at Geralt’s bandaged arm.

“No.” Geralt smirked, looking down at his own bicep. “It’s just a scratch, barely needs a bandage. I should have gotten you to look at it.” His resultant smile was teasing and playful.

Jaskier smiled bashfully into his coffee. He didn’t recognise this Geralt. Maybe it was the relief of a successful mission, or maybe this was just Geralt when he wasn’t on duty. He was acting fun and flirty. Whatever the reason, it made Jaskier’s cheeks burn.

“I thought they would have discharged you by now.” Jaskier managed to get out.

“They did.” Geralt said. “About five hours ago, I just came back in to check on your folks and Priscilla, and, well, you know…”

“What?”

“I wanted to check on you, idiot.” Geralt’s smile was shy but his expression quickly evened out, as if remembering himself. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” Jaskier said. _He’s just doing his job_ , he tried to remind himself. “I’m fine. T-thanks to you.”

Geralt shook his head and scoffed simultaneously, it was quite a thing.

“What you did today was incredible.” He said. “You,” he blinked, “you saved my life.”

Jaskier blushed again, he didn’t know why that upset him.

“It should be me thanking you, you and Eskel and Lambert, you saved my whole family.”

“Just my job.” Geralt shrugged and Jaskier’s eyes travelled to his shoulder instinctively, surprised that he wasn’t wincing.

Of course, it was just a job, Jaskier knew that. It shouldn’t have stung the way it did.

“So, yeah, I’m fine.” It came out a little bitter.

Then, as if sensing his melancholy, Geralt offered him a way out of the darkness with one sentence.

“It’s not the only reason I came. I wanted to talk to you.”

Jaskier’s large eyes found Geralt’s and he said nothing. Silence hung thick and heavy between them in the small space and Jaskier was afraid to breathe and break it.

“Damien Li was pronounced dead at the scene and fifteen of the syndicate were taken into custody.”

“Oh.” Jaskier said, his shoulders slumping, and he couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face, he just didn’t have the energy.

“Some of them are talking, some not. But we’ve already got units out to a few named locations.” Geralt frowned at nothing in particular. “I think it’s over now, or close to it. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but it’s pretty clean-cut, actually.”

Something else entirely reached up out of Jaskier and nodded his head for him. To have such a weight almost unceremoniously snatched from his shoulders left him surprisingly weak and he didn’t know what to say.

“So, what now?” He deflected the question to Geralt to avoid answering it himself and the answering smile Geralt gave him was sad but meaningful.

“I’ve got some unfinished business in the middle east I need to attend to.”

Jaskier couldn’t respond to that, or he didn’t want to. The scar on Geralt’s back, and the apparent devastation the event had left in its wake, sat heavy in his heart. All he knew about Sudan was what Geralt had told him, that MI6 were at a loose end with regards to their mole and the whereabouts of the arms dealers and a large part of Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt to stop, to leave it alone, to not put himself into anymore danger but he couldn’t. What was his excuse? That he wanted Geralt safe? Geralt wasn’t his, he never was and he never would be, even if, for a brief moment, it had felt like it.

“What about you?” Geralt filled the silence when Jaskier didn’t respond and Jaskier chastised himself. Geralt was clever enough to know that his silence was response enough.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier mumbled, too mortified at himself to really consider the question. He became hyper aware of the coffee in his hand and he felt suddenly dumb for holding it, but he didn’t know why.

“Hey, I made you a promise.” Geralt reminded him, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to work for MI6 anymore, you can do what you like.”

“My mum asked me to come home for a bit.” Jaskier admitted. She’d only mentioned it briefly before the ambulance had taken her away, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how genuine she’d been, but he imagined she was pretty genuine.

Geralt hummed in agreement.

“Are you going to?”

“I, err,” Jaskier looked at the floor, his eyes dragging across the bruising at his elbow. “I don’t know if I can.”

Geralt nodded in understanding more than agreement before he took his hands out of his pockets and stepped forward. Jaskier’s back straightened instinctively as Geralt stepped up to him until he was so close that Jaskier could feel his body heat. He felt like he was on fire. It would have been so easy to reach out and wrap his arms around him, to bury his head in Geralt’s neck like he’d done before and feel safe and calm and all the things he’d never felt before.

“The reason your family are safe is because of you,” Geralt reminded him quietly, intimately. “ _Choose_ to remember that.”

Jaskier flushed at the proximity and the compliment.

“I think she likes you.” Jaskier complimented dumbly back. “Pris, you’re her hero.”

Geralt laughed quietly and he shook his head as if in disagreement and then he caught Jaskier’s eye and his laugh died in his throat.

“You’re my hero, too.” Jaskier said soberly and Geralt was so paralysed by his words that he couldn’t defend himself against Jaskier leaning forward and pressing his lips to his cheek. The kiss was chaste and warm and something in it was saying goodbye.

Jaskier didn’t meet his eyes again as he turned from him and entered the ward but Geralt watched him go and stayed watching the empty spot where he’d been for a long time. The hole in his stomach grew bigger but the warmth in his cheek lingered.

Geralt left the hospital after that, feeling so strangely hollow it was like he was leaving his stomach behind. He met Eskel and Lambert at the landing strip and they took the jet back to London.

Lambert rested his leg on one of the seats and listened intently as Eskel animatedly told the story of how he’d injured a syndicate member with a corkscrew.

Geralt sat a few aisles away, his head resting on his hand and his eyes closed. He wasn’t sleeping but he was tired, the type of tired a nap couldn’t chase away.

When he reached his home, he smirked coldly as he saw the _Alfa_ parked outside and he wondered what poor sap had been made to drive it back to Coventry where he’d left it.

A heavy weight of disappointment settled in his stomach as he thought of the safe house and its quiet calm rooms, the comforting waft of bolognaise sauce in the air and the whispered verses of romantic poetry; it was like a dream. He shoved the bad feeling deep in his gut where he stored the rest as he let himself inside.

Geralt was too sore and despondent to do anything but head straight for his bedroom. He stripped methodically until he was naked save for the bandages on his shoulder and his arm before collapsing almost brokenly onto his bed for the first time in days. Geralt wasn’t particularly used to feeling affixed to a place, that was the nature of his job, but he felt suddenly so desperate for any familiarity and comfort that the sheets of his bed were a welcome balm to his burning skin. He laid on his front, hugging a pillow to his neck and burying his face into it as if it were a companion he was drawing close. He couldn’t help reaching behind himself and running his index finger along the supple flesh of the healing scar across his back.

He knew he should have been happy, or at the very least peaceful, that the syndicate was no longer a threat. What was more, the events the syndicate had put into place had somehow managed to reset things in Geralt’s life that had otherwise been wrong. He was being given back the Sudan mission, in whatever capacity that was, and Eskel was being reassigned the _Sharir_ , not the other way around.

Yet Geralt couldn’t switch his brain off, it was still running at a hundred miles an hour while the air around him was stilted and calm. He knew what was bothering him. His entire body was still thrumming with worry for Jaskier even though logically he knew he shouldn’t have been. He supposed it was because the threats to both of their lives had been so severe and so constant for the last couple of days that to be suddenly rid of that felt wrong, it felt more like a dismissal than a reaction. Geralt would go as far as to say that leaving Jaskier felt reckless, even though he’d practically watched Damien Li die with his own eyes. He had to remind himself, second by second, that the syndicate were dealt with, relatively speaking, Jaskier was safe and he didn’t need him anymore.

_The junkie in the toilet hadn’t been a syndicate member, had he?_ Geralt’s brain piped up treacherously. Even now, Geralt shuddered to think what would have happened to the poor kid if he’d arrived even thirty seconds later than he did. Jaskier needed protecting from himself as much as anyone else, and Geralt was unsure why he suddenly felt like the custodian of that.

Geralt growled and punched his pillow, partially to quell his anger and to try and make it into a more comfortable shape before he buried his face in it.

Jaskier was with his family, where be belonged, he wasn’t Geralt’s mission anymore.

This was yet another one of those moments when Geralt couldn’t help thinking about what Renfri would say if she were there with him, because she’d always been able to see through his bullshit better than anyone else. She’d tell him the truth he was too scared, or maybe too ashamed, to admit to himself: he wasn’t worried about Jaskier because he thought he was in danger, but he because he _liked_ him – more than one friend should like another.

He closed his eyes, practically assaulted by the sense-memory of Jaskier’s soft lips against his cheek in the darkness. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it until now, until he was alone, because Jaskier had kissed him. It had been a thank you, a goodbye and a _kiss_ , nothing could change that.

Then, quite unexpectedly, something happened to Geralt that hadn’t happened to him since he’d returned from Sudan. His cock thickened against his thigh.

He groaned frustratedly at himself for having such a childish and primal reaction to his emotional turmoil.

He’d been overcome with such grief and rage since losing Renfri that sex had been the very last thing on Geralt’s mind. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the quiet flirtation and sparks of attraction between himself and Jaskier had re-awoken his sexuality after months of being understandably dormant. He grunted as he was suddenly hard as a rock against the mattress, as if his months of unintended celibacy were making up for themselves with one erection.

He rolled onto his back, his breathing heavy and laboured, before he wrapped a hand unthinkingly around himself. His knuckles were bruised and red and matched the throbbing shade of his cock as it pulsed desperately in his palm. He was too far gone to feel bad or guilty, that would come later, all he wanted now was the pleasurable release he knew his hand would give him.

He jerked his hips, keeping his hand still as he fucked his fist hard and fast. It was dry and painful and unforgivingly, soothed only by the images behind his eyelids of Jaskier on his knees before him, as he’d been for that junkie, but there wasn’t fear in his eyes, instead they were wide and pleading and his sighs were breathy and pleasured as he gasped out his name.

Geralt grunted and spilled into his fist and the tension in his body snapped like a taut wire stretched beyond its breaking point. He sank, boneless, into the bed like he was reduced to liquid, like he was made of the spend he’d just forced from himself.

The aftershocks of his orgasm were aided by Geralt gently cradling himself, but soon enough his rough palm was painful on his sensitive cock and he let his hand fall away. Only then did he look down on himself. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his scarred flesh was painted white with his shame and the guilt he was expecting hit him harder than he’d thought it would.

Jaskier was vulnerable and he was scared, and he _trusted_ him, as an agent and a protector, and Geralt had abused that trust with his own desires. The guilt mixed with anger and sadness that it didn’t matter anyway because Geralt knew he’d never see him again. Even if he did, what would he say to him?

He didn’t bother wiping himself down as he fell into an exhausted and melancholic stupor. He didn’t sleep that night, but for the first time in a long time, there was someone other than Renfri on his mind.


	12. Julian Alfred Pankratz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: slight allusions to self-harm in this one, I’ve updated the fic tags to reflect this 😊

Chapter Twelve

_Julian Alfred Pankratz_

Bryony Pankratz opened the door the family home while her husband, Evan, helped Jaskier bring his bags in from the car. Someone from MI6 had retrieved his rucksack from the safehouse for him, but he’d only packed a small amount of clothes, his toothbrush, laptop and a wad of cash he hadn’t ended up spending, so his mother had insisted on stopping at a shopping centre on the way back and buying him some new clothes. The very last thing Jaskier had felt like doing was going on a shopping spree so he’d largely stayed silent, becoming little more than a living mannequin for his mother to drape shirts over and assess the size and colour. He didn’t say anything, nor did he protest in any way, because a part of him could tell that she _needed_ this. She needed to mother him, to deflect the trauma of nearly losing Priscilla, of losing Valdo. Jaskier didn’t have the strength to deny her the small modicum of comfort he could actually give her because he himself was miserable, too.

That was why he and his father heaved their way to the front door with heavy bags from _Top Shop_ and _Burtons_ while she disappeared inside, no doubt, Jaskier assumed, to put the kettle on.

MI6 had been and gone already, they’d swept the house for evidence and DNA, including recovering the security footage of their agents to build and support the case against the surviving syndicate members. If Jaskier hadn’t been directly involved with the home invasion, he would have hardly believed that anyone had been there at all.

The house was immaculate as he stepped inside, and everything was just as he remembered it. The worst part were how few positive memories his mind conjured up as he looked down the long corridor in front of him, all he could see were rooms filled with armed men trying to kill his family. The study was where Lambert had gracefully disarmed three men, the kitchen was where Eskel had almost been stabbed to death and the living room was where his brother had died, where his sister had almost died, and Jaskier couldn’t see anything but each horrid memory attached to each floorboard, each strip of wallpaper, and he knew in his heart that he could never live here again.

“Julian!” His mother called from the kitchen. “Go pop your stuff in your bedroom and then I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Jaskier blinked, feeling simultaneously at ease and on edge, it was like nothing had changed over the last four years when _everything_ had.

“Okay.” He called back, as if on autopilot, before he slung his rucksack over his shoulder, held two shopping bags in his hand and took the stairs two at a time.

Jaskier’s room had always been the first door on the right and he went for it instinctively before he paused with his hand on the door handle. His eyes had only glanced over the camera to this room before, instead focusing on the lower level where the syndicate were and he was struck with the bizarre knowledge that he couldn’t remember what he’d seen. But maybe that was because he’d blocked it out in his haste to save his family. There was no way they’d kept his room for him after all this time. They’d probably converted it to a guest bedroom or something, right? Because that was all he was now – a guest.

He pushed the door open and his face crumpled when he saw his bedroom almost exactly as he’d left it, with the small exception that it was cleaner, and the bedspread had been changed from his grey sheets to a light blue. But his desk was still in the corner of the room and covered in his faded _Transformer_ stickers. His wardrobe, the big, creaky wooden thing, was pushed against the wall and the shelves above his desk were littered with the various maths and science awards he’d won at school. The golden plastic of the trophies gleamed under the light and not a speck of dust was in sight.

He dropped his rucksack to the carpet and sunk down onto his bed, staring at the familiar room blankly. He scratched absentmindedly at the score marks on his elbow, leaving the fading bruises with an aggravated red hue. He didn’t know if that meant he was anxious or not.

Part of him, a large part in fact, longed to see his own flat in Millbank again. Not just for the familiarity, but he wanted his backroom with its calming blue lights and the promise of being able to work on something. He didn’t care if it was for MI6 or just a usual client, he just wanted a project he could get lost in and not be in his own head for five minutes.

Now that he wasn’t running from the syndicate, he struggled to recall precisely what had even occupied his mind before. Drugs, he supposed. He hadn’t taken anything in days and his mind was unusually clear, he wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he saw.

He shook his head as if to clear the fog from it and pushed himself up from the bed, remembering that his parents were waiting for him downstairs. He ambled to the kitchen. The kettle was whistling, a spiral of steam pouring from the spout and curling up into the air. His father was sat at the kitchen table, inches from where Eskel had stabbed that syndicate member in the days previously. His mother was at the counter, her back to him, with three mugs lined up and a box of _PG Tips_ in her hand.

She turned and smiled at him as he walked in, and for a moment, he wanted to bring up his bedroom but then she looked away and he dropped it.

“Where’s Prissie?” He asked instead.

“She’s asleep.” Bryony said. “She’s been exhausted since we got back, poor thing. I think it’s the medication.”

Jaskier pulled a sympathetic face as he leant against the fridge and crossed his arms, almost as if trying to unconsciously hide his arms from them. He watched as his mother stirred the teabag in the mug and heard the clink of metal on ceramic fill the room. It was almost absurdly domestic.

“We’re thinking about selling.” Bryony told the kitchen wall.

Jaskier wasn’t especially surprised, it was something that had been on all of their minds for years, but no one had had the guts to say it until now. Jaskier knew the reason they hadn’t. It was an old house; it had been in the Pankratz family name for generations. Many people had died in this house and to sell it seemed to be getting rid of history, and it was getting rid of Valdo, but Jaskier understood and he merely nodded.

“We were hoping to have a chat, Julian.” His father said sombrely, but not unkindly.

Jaskier felt ill at ease all of a sudden, with what his father was going to ask him and at hearing the name ‘Julian’ after so long. It was like they were content to erase the last four years of his life when he’d been Jaskier.

“No one’s upset.” Evan assured him. “We just need to understand a few things, come sit down.”

Jaskier felt like he’d been lured into some sort of interrogation and sat cautiously opposite his father at the table as his mother placed a steaming mug of tea in front of him. He’d always hated his mother’s tea, she scrimped on the sugar and it was too bitter for him to stomach, and he’d always preferred coffee, but still the act of kindness itself was enough to mollify Jaskier’s heavily beating heart and he let his fingertips dance around the too-hot ceramic in an attempt to absorb some of that comfort.

He waited anxiously for them to ask their questions, about where he’d been living, how he’d supported himself, if he was still using, and he knew they wouldn’t like any of the answers.

“We spoke to the MI6 agent.” Evan finally began, looking at Bryony and then his own mug to avoid looking at his son. “He told us those men were after you.”

Jaskier blinked.

He was both immediately surprised and immediately comprehensive. Of course, his parents would have questions about the syndicate, it was obvious, but it was still the last thing he’d been expecting for some reason.

“Oh.” He looked up at them to find both of their eyes were on him and he shrank back immediately. “Yeah, they were. I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“Julian-”

“No, it’s fine.” Jaskier interrupted briskly. He couldn’t pry his tight grip from the mug even though it was burning his hands. “What happened put all of you in danger and that’s on me.”

“It’s not.” His mother countered. “That’s not what we’re saying. But obviously you’ve been leading another life, baby, I didn’t think it was _dangerous_.”

Jaskier watched his palms turn pink. His brain was screaming at him to move his hands, but he just didn’t. It was so _loud_. His hand tremored and the tea spilt over the table. His mother jolted back, and his father made her stay seated as he grabbed the kitchen roll and began dabbing at the spill.

Jaskier looked down at his own hands, at the sore healing cuts from where he’d smashed the coffee table in the safehouse, tinged pink with boiled flesh from the hot tea. He felt disassociated from the pain as his mind went a thousand miles a minute over everything he could say.

“I’ll leave if you want.”

“Did we say that?” Evan sounded exasperated as he threw the damp pap of tea-soaked tissue into the bin. He watched his son shrink back from his tone and sighed, collecting himself and leaning against the table. “I’m not going to ask you any questions, but whatever involvement you have with MI6, the government, whatever, it needs to stop. Not just for you, but for this family.”

“I’m sorry, dad.” He meant it even though it sounded harsh. “But it’s over, I promise, I made sure of it.”

Bryony was out of her seat and her arms were around him and he tried not to wriggle in the uncomfortable embrace. Sometimes he felt like he didn’t speak the same language as them, and their comforting gestures weren’t comforting to him, but they’d be offended if he didn’t at least pretend.

“You’re too young for this, baby.” Her hot breath burst over his neck and he winced. “I want you safe, I want you to be here, okay?”

Jaskier ran his fingers over her forearm absentmindedly and hoped it was enough.

“I’m here.” He replied a little hollowly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next few days passed relatively calmly, but Jaskier found re-adjusting to living at home was more difficult than he’d first thought. His parents had both taken time off of work and had taken his sister out of school. It was partially to deal with what had happened but also as a way to get to know each other again after so long apart, but the inevitable side effect was that they ended up like sardines trapped in a small tin together.

Often Jaskier had caught his mother staring at his arm, or the pair of them talking in hushed tones and then falling quiet the minute they saw him as if their silence wasn’t as incriminating as what they were saying. Jaskier’s resultant anxiety had started to make his fingers twitch and reach for a baggie of heroin that he knew wasn’t there.

Precisely twice had he been on the verge of leaving the house to score, to be calm for the first time since the hospital and to not feel judging eyes on him from every corner, but two things had stopped him both times he’d found his hand on the door handle. It wasn’t the fear of what would happen if his parents caught him, nor any particular pride that this was the longest he’d been sober for four years, but it was because of what had happened.

Geralt had been right, the syndicate weren’t terrorists, they were drug dealers, and from what Jaskier had learnt from their notes in the days he’d spent cooped up in his parents’ house, they’d had a monopoly on the London market for nearly two years. If Damien Li hadn’t have gotten cocky and taken on MI6, well, he’d still be alive today, and probably would have spread his wings and his product would have reached every corner of the UK. That meant that the likelihood of Jaskier’s supply coming from the syndicate was incredibly high and the thought that he’d aided them in hurting his family made him sick to his stomach. He wanted to claw his own veins out as if that would somehow purge the heroin from his system and his guilt along with it.

The second reason, Jaskier was even more ashamed to admit, was because of what had happened in Coventry. He couldn’t get the hard lines of that junkie’s cock out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. He would have done it, as well, he felt it in his bones. He would have sucked him off, reduced himself to nothing more than a dirty whore, just to get a fix and the only reason he hadn’t wasn’t because of any morals or divine intervention – it was because Geralt had stopped him, and Geralt wouldn’t be there next time.

_If you carry on like this, all you’ll leave behind are strangers who can barely remember you._

Evidently, something in Geralt’s words had resonated with him on a level he hadn’t realised at the time. He didn’t know whether it was because he’d lost his mum the same way or whether it was just because he trusted him, but every time he thought about shooting up, those words clouded his judgment.

His mind had wandered to Geralt more than a few times since he’d last seen him. Mostly, Jaskier was _mortified_ that he’d lost all sense and kissed him, and he prayed that Geralt would see it as nothing more than the innocent peck of gratitude that it was meant to be and not read into it as Jaskier himself had done. But he’d be lying to himself, and selfish, if he thought he was just embarrassed. He worried about him. He knew Geralt had a dangerous job and he also knew the man didn’t exactly put his own safety high up on his list of priorities and Jaskier couldn’t help but automatically assume that anytime Geralt was out of his sight then he was in some mortal danger. He could be in Sudan right now for all Jaskier knew. He could be dead and Jaskier would never know.

Jaskier was sat on the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest, a half-empty energy drink can lax in his hand, ignoring the syndicate case file open in front of him as his mind mulled over such distressing thoughts, when Priscilla swung around the doorframe with an energy Jaskier wasn’t expecting.

“Hey, Trouble.” He greeted absentmindedly.

“Hi!” She jumped on the sofa next to him and Jaskier had to tighten his fist around the can in his hand to stop himself from spilling it everywhere.

“Jesus,” he exclaimed quietly, leaning forward and putting his drink on the coffee table in front and out of harms way. “Had enough sugar this morning, Pris?” He asked ironically.

“I’m going to Gail’s.” Priscilla announced proudly and Jaskier didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t know who that was, but he refused to allow his melancholy to ruin his sister’s good mood.

“Your little friend?” He ventured somewhat hopefully.

“Yep,” she nodded. “Can you do my hair, please?” Already she’d turned her back to him, her light hair fluttering down her back and reaching the base of her spine. It was lucky she did, because she missed the look on Jaskier’s face.

“Sure.” He swallowed, closing the case file and setting it on the arm of the sofa before he turned back to her, his fingers hesitating as they reached up and began carding lightly through her fine blonde hair.

“I didn’t think you remembered this.” Jaskier admitted honestly as he began to weave her blonde strands together with a practised hand.

“Mhmm.” Priscilla answered calmly. “You’re the only one who does it right.”

Jaskier was surprised at the ball of emotion that _plopped_ into his gut at the simple declarative and he frowned in concentration as he pulled each strand together like scarlet floss through flesh and his eyes were sodden by the time he was done.

“You got the band?” He asked thickly and blinked as he was presented with a simple brown tie and forced himself to calm as he let the braid fall between her shoulder blades – absolutely perfect.

“You’re done,” he said softly, tapping her shoulder. “Have fun at Gail’s.”

“Thanks, Jule!” She turned and smiled at him before she disappeared out of the room with much the same enthusiasm as she’d entered it. The resounding slap to Jaskier’s forehead echoed around the room but it wasn’t enough. He gripped his arm, digging his fingernails into his forearm until deep red crescents of pain formed beneath them, he wished he was strong enough to tear his arm apart, but he wasn’t, and soon he fell back against the sofa and hiccupped as he tried to force the tears away before anyone heard him.

…

A few more _frustrating_ days passed by and Jaskier was preparing to leave the house on a secret and embarrassing mission, so when his mother cornered him at the front door, he almost squeaked in response.

“Someone’s jumpy.” She teased.

Jaskier swallowed, his eyes darting to the floor and he felt his heart rate increasing in his chest.

“You made me jump.” He stammered. “I…I won’t be long.”

“Take a jumper.” She said, before disappearing back into the house. “Stay there, I’ll get you a clean one.”

Jaskier frowned, glancing down at his short-sleeved shirt, then through the fogged glass of the front door and at the sunlight that was pouring in.

“I think I’ll be fine?”

“Still,” she said, coming back to the door and holding out a freshly laundered periwinkle blue jumper. “Best to cover up.”

Jaskier blinked, his hand instinctively wrapping around his own elbow and covering the scars and fading bruises.

“You mean these?”

“You don’t want people getting the wrong impression, baby.”

Jaskier knew she only meant the best for him, in her own way, and he knew he would just be chastised for feeling hurt, but he couldn’t ignore the guilt, or shame, of being backed into a corner like this.

“I’m not ashamed, mum.” He explained. “I don’t care what people think and neither should you.”

It was strange, the things that came into his head when faced with such banal pedantry. He wanted to tell his mother that when you’d tasted gun metal, or sewed a man’s flesh back together, things like nosy neighbours and social politics meant very little, but he didn’t. Mainly it was because of the _Official Secrets Act_ , but it was also because it wasn’t fair to burden her with his harsh reality. He’d told her and his father bits and pieces of what had happened with the syndicate and Coventry, but he hadn’t mentioned the attempts on his life or anything regarding Geralt beyond ‘the agent’.

“Actually, while we’re on the subject-” She steamrollered over him without answering. “We’ve booked you in for a therapy session next week.”

“What?” Jaskier asked incredulously. “Why?”

“Because it’ll be good for you to talk to someone about _everything_ , it might stop you, you know, turning to other things.”

“Mum,” he was already shaking his head. “It’s the _British secret service_ , I can’t _talk_ about anything. Not unless I want a swat team after me.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Mum-”

“Stop arguing with me, Julian.”

“Stop trying to control my life.”

Bryony fell silent and Jaskier regretted his words as soon as they’d come out of his mouth.

“I’ve not taken anything, I promise.” He said lamely.

“I know you haven’t.” She murmured. “I just want you to get better. Just go to one session, for me, at least then you’ve tried.”

His eyes hit the floor and he sagged. She didn’t understand, and she never would.

“Fine.” He relented.

“Fantastic,” she smiled, as if it were some sort of breakthrough for Jaskier’s benefit and not just her getting what she wanted.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” He muttered, turning for the door, but before he could, Bryony pressed the periwinkle cotton into his hand.

“Don’t forget your jumper.”

…

Jaskier’s heart sat in his throat as he sat in the therapist’s office. It was an unassuming if crowded room with stuffed bookshelves and a desk tucked away in a corner and absolutely buried in haphazard paperwork. The entire room set his O.C.D into a frenzy and the only way he could combat it was to sit on his own hands, a nervous tremor in his right knee as it jiggled up and down. The rather stoic lady sat behind the desk had introduced herself as Linda and she’d spend the entire first five minutes of their ‘session’ scribbling out a form before finally she looked up at him and smiled.

“So, Julian,” she spoke with a familiarity like she’d known him for years, but it still took him a moment to respond to his real name. “What do you want to talk about today?”

_I don’t know, Linda_. He thought to himself. _Isn’t that your job?_

“I…I don’t know.” He answered with confusion as he kept his eyes on the floor.

She lowered her head as if trying and failing to catch his eye.

“You were talked into coming here today, weren’t you?” She asked knowingly. “Who was it?” She asked when he offered no response. “Your parents?”

He nodded and listened with a wince as the nib of her biro scratched over the paper form on her desk.

“They must be worried about you.”

He swallowed and forced himself to look at her. She didn’t look particularly threatening, but it didn’t change the fact that new people and environments made him uncomfortable, or that he couldn’t talk about the syndicate even if he wanted to. Even if he did, what would he say? A man tried to kill me, cure it please?

But his mother hadn’t sent him here for the syndicate, had she? He sighed and resigned himself.

“I used to…use.” He admitted quietly, disturbed by revealing this shameful and potentially incriminating piece of information to a stranger. “They’re worried I’ve started again, that’s why I’m here.” _Easier to send me to you than talk to my themselves, because money fixes everything, doesn’t it?_

“And why would they think that?” Linda asked, unperturbed by Jaskier’s confession.

“I had an accident.” That seemed the easiest way to get around it. “Things got bad again and-” She wrote something down and he winced again “-and they’re worried.”

She finished writing and placed the pen under her palm, trapping it against the notepad and looking at him as if in some over-the-top demonstration of her full attention.

“And have you?”

“Have I what, sorry?”

“Started using again.”

“Oh.” The question startled him, and he shook his head. “Oh, no, no, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier’s brow furrowed in confusion. He felt like he was missing something, that some part of this was a test or a trick to determine whether or not he’d pricked his arm lately. But the bruising could tell anyone that.

Linda reread her brief notes as if they somehow gave her a unique insight into his life and Jaskier watched her unsteadily.

“It sounds to me like your previous drug use has been a knee-jerk reaction to stressful or traumatic situations, would you agree with that?”

_More than you know_.

“I guess so.”

“So, if you’ve recently had an _accident_ ,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s perfectly reasonable of your family to expect that of you. Perhaps if you pinpointed the reason you haven’t, you could explain that to them and alleviate some of the tension in your relationship?”

“Why I haven’t?” He asked quietly. Just the thought of sitting his folks down and telling them any of the truth, whether it was a gun or a cock in his mouth, filled him with clammy dread.

“Maybe you found another outlet?” She offered.

“I was never addicted, okay?” He said bluntly. “I didn’t _need_ it. I just needed things to be quiet, for once…”

“Are things quiet now?”

This was not the sort of therapy Jaskier had been expecting. He thought they’d have a gentle conversation, not this _interrogation_ he felt like he was under right now. But even Jaskier knew he wasn’t one to respond to gentle conversation.

“No, it’s not.” He sounded defeated in his response.

“So why did you stop using?” She asked simply.

Jaskier opened his mouth to answer before he realised he didn’t have one.

“Should I be shooting up?” He joked darkly, by way of deflection, and to her credit, Linda chuckled in response.

“No.” She admitted. “What I’m getting at is that maybe something _happened_ between the last time you used and now that has shifted your perspective. It’s not uncommon among _casual_ users, shall we say. Usually, they’re deflecting some sort of past trauma and move from addiction to addiction. For example, they turn from drugs to drink or even self-harm because it’s not about the drugs themselves, it’s about the escapism.” She looked suddenly sympathetic. “Has anything like that happened to you? Has something else taken the drug’s place?”

Jaskier didn’t blink as he absorbed her words in a way she’d never be able to comprehend. He thought of the junkie in the toilet, he thought of Geralt and of Geralt’s mother and the haunted look in his eyes when he’d spoken about her. He thought about Valdo and the kindness of losing someone who never chose to go, because Priscilla would never have that from him, would she?

“I spoke to someone about it who understood and, yeah, I suppose my perspective shifted. Made me think about what I was leaving behind.” He wiped his nose. “I shouldn’t be so fucking selfish.”

“You’re not selfish, and I’m sure your friend didn’t think so, either.”

“He’s not a…a friend, he’s just a…a guy.”

“Well, whatever he is, he’s made a profound effect on you, losing interest in an addictive substance is no small thing.”

Jaskier shook his head, his mind swimming already, he didn’t need to add his confusing feelings for Geralt to the pickled mess inside his head. But there they were, at the forefront of his mind, where he couldn’t escape them.

“It’s like, I don’t know, my folks are there with their therapy and their jumpers and it seems kind of _performative_ , you know? Putting a plaster over a bullet wound because taking the bullet out means you might bleed everywhere.” He shook his head, ridding himself of the extended metaphor. “He actually _saw_ me, even the bits that aren’t nice, and he still liked me.” Was he crying? He scrubbed his face furiously.

Linda had lent forward in her chair and was looking at him with practised, but sincere, sympathy.

“Where is he now?” She finally asked.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier wiped his nose. “I don’t see him anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I have no reason to.”

“I think you might.”

“Really?” Jaskier laughed nervously. “I thought therapy would be all about moving on and letting go.”

“Depriving ourselves of the people we love is another form of self-harm, Julian. Sometimes we can’t always find what we need on our own, and that’s okay.”

Jaskier thought of the relief of Geralt’s company, the _quiet_ that followed the agent around and found it hard to believe he’d do a lot to feel that again except talk to him. He supposed he was afraid.

“He doesn’t want to see me.” He tried to explain.

“Did he tell you that?”

When Jaskier got home, he was especially miserable.

Not only was he emotionally exhausted and missing heroin more than ever, but now he was thinking about Geralt _again_ which he’d been readily avoiding for as long as possible. The first, and more salient reason, was because he missed the big idiot. He missed the calm atmosphere and open conversation, he missed not having to hide everything he did or felt like he had to do for his parents. He missed that unspoken little _something_ between them that made him feel less alone.

The second reason he tried to keep Geralt from his thoughts was because of something rather unexpected that had cropped up since he’d stopped using, something that had never been an issue before, but most definitely was now. As soon as he’d locked himself in his bedroom, he leant back against the door and breathed out a sigh of relief that quickly turned into a groan. He was as hard as a post in his jeans, his cock thick and heavy and practically bursting through his zip with how aroused he was.

Jaskier had forgotten what it was like to be sexually frustrated, he hadn’t experienced it in years and a small part of him felt like regaining his libido should have been one of the perks of becoming clean but, with his current situation, it was nothing short of a massive inconvenience.

He shoved his jeans and his underwear down his legs with one harsh tug, balling them up and throwing them in a corner before climbing onto the bed and settling on his knees and wrapping a hand around his cock. Jaskier shivered at the sensation, spitting into his palm and running his hand up and down himself with slow, measured tugs, stifling the groan that fell from his lips as relief flooded him. His hand dipped lower and began fondling his balls, rolling the fleshy sacks between his fingers as his other hand grasped his neglected crown, twisting the way he enjoyed and slicking his hand with his own precome. Jaskier’s eyes almost rolled back into his head and his thighs tremored as he pleasured himself, working both of his hands over his cock until he was a whimpering mess.

After a long while of his slow, heavy ministrations, Jaskier’s forehead began to pinch in frustration. His hand sped up to the point where his wrist ached before his eyes finally fell open in defeat. His cock was still hard and heavy in his hand and it showed no signs of changing.

He rolled onto his back and began rummaging through the top drawer of his bedside cabinet while one hand still lazily fisted himself. Soon enough he was coming back with his secret purchase from the other day.

The dildo was bigger than the purple silicone one he’d left behind in London. It was pale blue with a bulbous head and surprisingly thick girth. It was bigger than anything he’d ever put inside himself before because, and he hated even admitting it, because he imagined _Geralt_ was a lot bigger than his purple toy at home.

He left the dildo resting on his clothed stomach as he came back with the small bottle of lubricant he’d procured at the same time. He hiked his legs up to his chest, letting his cock rest heavy against his abdomen as he hurriedly coated his hands. He was hurrying because a part of him wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible, the part of him that felt like this was shameful, not being fucked, not being unable to orgasm without being fucked, but for masturbating over a man he shouldn’t have been. He owed Geralt his life and this felt disrespectful, somehow.

He ran a slick finger over his hole, shivering at the immediate sparks of pleasure that shot through him and wondered if all men felt like this or if they were just strange. He was inclined to go with the latter.

He let out an embarrassing noise when his index finger caught against the ring of muscle and dipped inside of him and clapped a hand over his mouth. The house was empty but still he felt like he had to be quiet. He wasn’t even touching his prostate but the mere stretch, the intrusion, felt otherworldly.

It was hard not to wrap his hand around his cock and finger himself to completion there and then, but he did have a little self-control and he slowed his hand along with his breathing as he pumped his finger in and out of himself, pressing more lube against the tight ring of muscle until he was stretched around two fingers and sighing to himself. Luckily, the process was more methodical than pleasurable, and he managed to keep the hand on his cock steady before he let everything speed up.

“ _Fuck_.” The noise was choked as pleasure shot through his dick. The fingers in his ass flexed hard and rough like he was punishing himself before he let himself go and his hands shook as he picked up the dildo from his chest in a mixture of frustrated denial and anticipation.

He could barely fit his hands around the girth of the imposing blue silicone. He felt like he should have been scared by it, but he was so turned on he just wanted it inside him. He wanted _Geralt_ inside him, to fuck away all the fear and the pain and leave nothing but sobbing pleasure in its wake.

He slicked the toy liberally and reached blindly between his own legs, he gasped and his eyes burst open as the bulbous head popped into his hole. He let his head fall back as he breathed heavily. It was _big_ , bigger than he’d realised and he pushed it in a few more inches experimentally and his mouth fell open as he felt every inch stretching him wide. It wasn’t painful, but it was definitely _in there._ It felt dirty and obscene and Jaskier’s head span under the intensity of it.

Jaskier groaned as he dropped the end of the fake dick, expecting it to slither out but it didn’t, it just sat hot and heavy in his hole. He could feel his ass contracting around it, unsure how to react to the thick intrusion but being unable to do anything about it.

“Fuck.” Was all Jaskier could say.

His hand was on his cock in an instant, stroking himself almost punishingly. The sensations were somehow more intense and more pleasurable with his ass stuffed full. He rocked his hips down, shifting the toy inside of him and his eyes rolled back. Before he could help himself, his hand was on the base of the dildo and driving it inside of himself.

His face crumpled as he bit his lip to stifle the high-pitched moan that left him, but it was the most intense thing he’d ever felt, a full-body pleasure that wasn’t localised purely in his dick.

He wanked his cock roughly as he worked the dildo in and out of himself. He wasn’t sure where the pleasure was even coming from, just that it was _there_ and he could feel the heat pooling in his stomach. He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

His brow furrowed as he imagined the heat and weight of Geralt’s arms around him, his soft lips against his, whispering quiet reassurances into his ear as he took him apart and put him back together again.

Jaskier came with a choked sob. His hand on himself stilled as he clenched around the dildo, keeping it inadvertently pressed tight against his prostate. He rolled onto his side, clamping his legs together and shuddering as white spurts shot from the end of his fist.

He lay there trembling for a long while as his ass contracted around the cock buried deep inside him, waiting for the tell-tale waves of shame and regret that soon began to wash over him. He shook as the dildo slid free and his hole contracted around thin air and he felt _empty_.

He sobbed into the crook of his arm as he hugged his knees to his chest, his ass cold and empty against the chill of the room and it felt like he deserved it. Why was he torturing himself? But he knew that, despite everything, he wasn’t trying to be cruel, he was just trying to ease the torment of falling for a man he couldn’t have.


	13. the white wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Goes without saying that the foreign office ministers in this chapter are entirely fictional :)

Chapter Thirteen

_the white wolf_

Jaskier thought about his conversation with his therapist a lot over the next couple of days. He wasn’t considering talking to his parents about Geralt, that would open up more cans of worms than Jaskier could ever clean up, but he had been thinking about contacting him.

Just the thought of seeing him again, feeling that long-desired sense of relief he felt whenever he was around him, made his heart speed up and not in the anxious way he was used to. He often found himself overcome with a desire to know that Geralt was okay, that his bullet wound was healing fine, and he reasoned that that wasn’t an unforgivable reason for a phone call, but every time he came close to making a decision, he managed to talk himself out of it.

Part of him wished that MI6 would contact him first and make the decision for him, maybe with a job or even just anything regarding the syndicate. They had sent him some debriefing notes, including the results of Damien Li’s autopsy, and he knew he was required to give evidence in the upcoming trial but aside from that, MI6 had been strangely quiet on the subject. They hadn’t knocked on his door just as Jaskier had stupidly made Geralt promise.

Jaskier knew he’d just been a mission to Geralt, a job, and Geralt had probably already forgotten about him. The thought hurt but it was true. Jaskier knew that to read anything more into it was childish and painful but he wasn’t smart in any of the ways that mattered. He needed to somehow close the lid on Geralt, to stop feeling like he owed him for all he’d done, but how precisely did one repay someone who had given them everything? It wasn’t like Jaskier could just give Geralt what he most desired like some sort of mystical Djinn.

“Oh, _fuck_.” He murmured to himself as it dawned on him.

Jaskier locked himself in his bedroom almost immediately, sat at his desk and opened his laptop. This would have been ten times easier with his equipment in the backroom of his flat, but he was stuck with his laptop and his wits and it would just have to do.

He knew the best place to start would be the foreign office. Not only did they deal with foreign relations, but they oversaw MI6 and would have been well aware of the undercover mission in Sudan and it was a nest for any mole.

Jaskier was absolutely certain that MI6 must have already, or currently be, investigating the foreign office but he was also certain that at some point, their hands were tied and in Geralt’s world of secrets and terrorism and espionage, above-board investigations didn’t always cut the mustard. MI6 had hired Jaskier to work off the books, to go where they couldn’t, and that was exactly what he planned to do.

A quick google was all it took to find the name and official London residence of the Foreign Secretary, the Right Honourable MP Scott Moore.

Jaskier opened some very illegal and personally developed tracking software, not dissimilar, he imagined, to the tracker Geralt had put in his phone. But Jaskier couldn’t afford to be as precise.

His fingers itched as he flicked between the empty dialog box of the tracking software and the google page with the foreign office’s official information. Scott Moore’s address was right in front of him and Jaskier could have hacked into his personal emails in a matter of moments, but without his protected equipment, and with nothing but an, admittedly strong, VPN between him and detection, he felt a lot more comfortable scattering the trail as much as he could.

He programmed in the first few digits of the postcode, encapsulating the entirety of the area, before pressing enter. The empty dialog box began to populate with line after line of IP addresses and Jaskier watched in dismay as the scroll bar shrunk and shrunk as hundreds, of not thousands, of addresses for every phone, every tablet and every laptop were presented before him for the taking. He supposed it was a good thing he wasn’t vindictive.

He lowered his laptop screen until the bright light muted, allowing the software to work quietly as he moved from the desk to his bed. His entire body was still thrumming with need to get the job done and to get it done now, but he knew that he had to be patient. His hand flexed of its own accord, something he was noticing a lot lately, and he scratched the crease of his elbow instinctively. Jaskier stared up at the ceiling, his mind surprisingly blank, as he willed sleep to take him.

The next day came slowly and Jaskier was breathing steadily as he sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. The dark screen brightened before him and presented him with his password-protected lock screen. He typed in a string of numbers and letters and pressed ‘enter’ and the dialog box of the tracking software was presented for him. The scroll bar was steady and the search complete, with thousands and thousands of results.

Jaskier’s hands were steady in comparison to his unsettled night as he moved the cursor over the filter tool installed on the navigation bar and ran Scott Moore’s post code.

The filter ran for over an hour but Jaskier didn’t move his eyes from the screen as the IP addresses were wiped and the dialog box repopulated with only fourteen results. These were all of the devices in Scott Moore’s official residence. There was no way for Jaskier to differentiate between phones and computers but it hardly mattered. If the Foreign Secretary knew anything about Sudan, if anything were to incriminate him in anyway, it would be here somewhere.

He checked each IP address methodically, searching for anything that even remotely resembled a business email account, and it was so routine for him that he found his mind wandering to other things. He wondered how long he’d get in prison if he was ever caught. It was more of an errant thought than anything else, because he was confident he wouldn’t, but also because he wished ardently that MI6 would have his back if he did turn up anything substantial. Geralt would be pleased, he was sure of it, and the thought made his chest warm.

Jaskier sighed and rubbed his eyes, his body exhausted by the time he had Scott Moore’s email account open in front of him. He looked away from the screen for the first time in hours to see the darkness at his window and he frowned. He pushed himself away from his desk and hesitated for a moment before he unlocked the bedroom door and jogged downstairs to the kitchen.

Priscilla was sat at the table, surrounded by exercise books and pencils as she did her homework and Jaskier ruffled her hair as he opened the fridge.

“Jule, what’s seven twenty-fours?” Priscilla asked somewhat despairingly.

“One hundred and sixty-eight.” Jaskier rattled off unthinkingly as he pulled a four-pack of energy drinks he’d stashed there earlier. He’d hidden them behind an iceberg lettuce in the hopes his mother wouldn’t take it upon herself to bin them as she had been accustomed to do in his teen years.

“Julian, don’t help her, she needs to learn on her own.” Bryony admonished as she scrubbed plates in the kitchen sink. “And those drinks aren’t very healthy, either.”

The urge to offer to shoot up to stay awake was a powerful one and he fought it off with a dazzling smile before he was out of the kitchen and racing up the stairs. He locked the door behind him and set the cans on the desk by his laptop and was surprised to find that he was breathing heavily as he sat back down. He knew it wasn’t his race up the stairs either, he was anxious about his encounter with his mother. He’d promised his parents that his association with MI6 had ended and he wouldn’t do anything else to put the family in danger, and here he was with the Foreign Secretary’s personal emails open on his desk. But he couldn’t deny what he’d learnt on the road, that the line between right and wrong, and legal and illegal, was a blurred one. He could help therefore he _should_ , right?

He stretched his neck from side to side, hearing his tendons pop loudly in his ears as he cracked open a can of energy drink one-handed and took a long swig, fortifying himself before he began trawling through the emails in front of him. 1 A.M came on quicker than he was expecting and his efforts, until this point, had been fruitless. He had cans of energy drink scrunched up next to him and deep scratches on his inner elbow where he’d been unconsciously clawing at himself, when one throwaway line in a dense body of text between Moore and a colleague caught his eye.

_I’ll ask Ben when he gets back from Sudan._

Jaskier, three energy drinks in and jittery, knew he’d seen the name ‘Ben’ before very recently and it was barely a moment later that he was minimalizing the tracking software and going back to his internet browser, cursing the single screen in front of him as he did so.

He’d left the page on Scott Moore open, but it didn’t just list his information, it listed every minister in the foreign office and there he was, one line below –

_The Right Honourable MP Benjamin Willshore – Minister of State for Middle East and North Africa._

Jaskier swallowed quietly as his eyes ran over the information. Willshore’s official residence was mere miles from Moore’s so he didn’t have to repeat the same arduous filtering process and by 3 A.M, he was trawling through Ben Willshore’s personal devices when an encrypted firewall popped up in front of him. If Jaskier were less hyper-fixated he might have grinned to himself, but instead his heart leapt at the wall of defence. It was a red, flashing beacon that he might actually be getting somewhere. It was a sophisticated encryption, no one secured an email account with this level of security unless they had something to hide. Regardless, he disabled the firewall pretty easily and chuckled to himself at the amount of email subscriptions the poor guy had to BDSM-centred porn websites. He momentarily worried that this was the only reason Benjamin Willshore had the firewall but then he started to notice the emails. The recipient email address was a string of nonsense letters and numbers, a classic sign of a protected email address and Jaskier filtered down on it. He tried to read a few of them but they were written in some sort of code that Jaskier couldn’t begin to decipher. He sighed to himself as he clicked back through the emails on autopilot, wondering if he was just wasting his time. These emails looked dodgy as hell, but they weren’t incriminating, nor did they seem to have anything to do with Sudan.

Then there it was, an email dated over six months previously, between Willshore and this secure address:

_The white wolf and the shrike are in the house_

Jaskier had assumed that, if this was to do with the arms dealers, then it had been Willshore that had been facilitating or at least co-ordinating the passing of arms from Britain into Sudan, but now it looked dangerously like he was the one who had leaked the mission. He’d told the arms dealers that Geralt was MI6, and they’d retaliated and done whatever it was they’d done that had left that scar across his back and that look of defeat and sadness in his eyes that made him run into fights outmanned and outgunned like he was trying to finish the job.

This terrifying and tragic revelation brought with it an unexpected one, as well. Jaskier didn’t know who the ‘shrike’ was, but he was smart enough to put two and two together. Eskel and Lambert were partners while Geralt worked alone and he found it hard to believe that Geralt’s subsequent misery had been purely from failing his mission. Jaskier sighed and his eyes hit the keys on his laptop. Geralt hadn’t been alone in Sudan, had he? He’d had a partner, and he’d lost them, and the sadness he had in his eyes whenever he’d looked at Jaskier was because he was expecting to see someone that Jaskier wasn’t.

Jaskier swallowed and hated himself for being jealous of the dead.

…

Geralt walked into MI6’s London Office for the first time in weeks. He was dressed immaculately in an all-black suit that made him look like the night, with his complimentary starlight hair pulled back off of his face in a neat ponytail that hung over one shoulder. His professional demeanour was contrasted by the dark bags under his eyes and the drawn out, hard expression on his face, but then Geralt didn’t think he’d slept more than five minutes since he’d left Newcastle.

Jack Karraway had returned to London three weeks ago and Geralt had spent the entire time trailing him for any indication on where the brothers or the rest of the arms dealers were while an arrest warrant was processed.

The technical support department had been tracing his phone and Geralt had been following the co-ordinates, jumping from hotel to hotel, or more honestly, alleyway to alleyway, all until yesterday when the signal went dead and Karraway ducked off their radar.

Geralt had returned home, showered, changed, and barrelled into the London office for the first time in days with the intent to come up with any dirt he could on Karraway to get that arrest warrant out and _force_ him out of hiding. He was running on fumes and false hopes, and he knew any official attack on Karraway would be halted by their mole, but he couldn’t give up because right now it was all he had.

He’d be lying if he said that it hadn’t occurred to him more than once when trailing Karraway to just grab him and get the information he needed, through any necessary means, but he’d stopped himself every time. He knew any confession or information received under duress would be inadmissible and only secure the freedom of Karraway rather than end it. Such an action by an MI6 agent may well become a scandal, putting a black mark on the Sudan mission and the Devenere brothers would get off scott free.

He didn’t know where this forward-thinking Geralt had come from, or come back from, but Dr. Triss seemed pleased with his progress so he supposed he was doing the right thing.

Geralt was walking down a corridor when an agent he recognised stopped him, she was holding a brown envelope in her hands.

“Agent Rivia.” She greeted. “I was just on my way to find you. Someone sent this for you, it arrived this morning.”

He arched an eyebrow and took the proffered brown envelope and the starchy paper crinkled in his hands.

“By who?” He asked.

“Don’t know, dropped off anonymously at the door. It’s been screened though, should be safe.” She said before walking off and leaving him stood alone.

Geralt turned the brown envelope over in his hands. It wasn’t heavy but the paper bulged from whatever was inside it. The words ‘ _Agent_ _Rivia_ ’ were scrawled across the front in black marker pen. He held the envelope in the crook of his elbow as he carried on walking, missing the intended office he’d sort of stolen for himself while he’d been grounded in Britain and instead stole into an empty computer laboratory. Part of him wanted to take it straight to Vesemir but another, more dominant part of him, wanted to check it out himself first.

He stopped at the first computer he came to, not bothering to sit and instead leaning against the desk as he opened the envelope. He slotted his fingers under the glued flap, the rip of the thick paper parting under his digits filling the otherwise silent room, before he tipped the contents out onto his hand.

It was a simple USB stick with no distinctive markings or brand names on it. He turned it over once in his hand before he peered into the envelope. The only other thing inside was a yellow post-it note with five words written on it, in the same hand and with the same pen as the front of the envelope:

_Go get them, white wolf._

_…_

Geralt’s expression was blank as Vesemir looked through the print-outs that Geralt had run from the USB stick for the fourth time in as many minutes.

“Jesus, Geralt.” Vesemir muttered quietly. “The fucking foreign office? Ben fucking Willshore?”

Geralt hummed darkly.

“I thought we investigated them.”

“We did.” Vesemir answered. “It came up with nothing, because of course it would. We can’t just hack into their personal emails. Whoever did this had an agenda.”

“It was Jaskier.”

Vesemir glanced up at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“This,” Geralt inclined his head to the paper in Vesemir’s hand, his expression unreadable, “came from Jaskier.”

“What makes you say that?”

Geralt hadn’t shown Vesemir the post-it, nor did he intend to. He didn’t know why Jaskier had done what he’d done, or risked himself to do so, even though in his wildest dreams he wished he knew why. There was no denying that it was a – a gift.

“Don’t ask me how I know, just trust me.” He implored and Vesemir nodded, the information more important than the source, and they both knew it.

Vesemir was quiet but his expression betrayed him and Geralt was uneasy, as he always was, when Vesemir didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t know if we can use this.” He admitted. “We can’t bring in a minister from the foreign office on illegal evidence, lad, even if we do it’s…there’s nothing to link him to the Devenere’s, not without cracking this code.”

The bubble of hope inside Geralt was the only hope he’d had since returning from Sudan and it didn’t burst under Vesemir’s words, but it did swell, vibrating under the pressure and sending shockwaves through his ribcage. He clenched his fists to halt the imperceptible tremor in his fingers.

“They killed Renfri.” He said it like it was the only thing that mattered. Maybe to him, it was.

Vesemir’s head snapped up, ready to chastise Geralt for his single-mindedness, his reckless neglect of protocol after weeks of improvement, but then he saw Geralt’s tight fists, and the absolute devastation on his face, and he couldn’t deny the poor boy his closure again.

“I know.” He said, looking down at the email in his fist. _The white wolf and the shrike are in the house_. Geralt was his boy, Renfri his girl, and Willshore had destroyed that, and them, with one line. “This email was sent three days before we extracted you from Khartoum, and it contains the code names of the two agents on the job, if we can trace this email back to Sudan, then that should be enough to build a case, lad. As for the source – anonymous tip – I’ll deal with it when it comes up.”

Geralt clapped Vesemir on the back, the loud slap of flesh on cloth echoing mutedly around the room.

“ _Thank you, sir_.”

Vesemir looked at Geralt for a drawn-out moment, simultaneously experiencing the worst and best news he could have possibly received, and he nodded.

…

The right honourable MP Benjamin Willshore sat across from Agent Vesemir Morhen and Agent Geralt Rivia, the two parties separated by a simple metal table affixed to the floor in one of MI6’s interview rooms. They weren’t used all that often, so the small party had the luxury of privacy of the ground floor.

Benjamin Willshore looked uneasy, a fearful expression poorly masked by a guarded glare as he held his hands in his lap and adjusted his silver cufflinks every ten seconds.

Both of the agents were more relaxed. They were stripped down to their shirts. Agent Rivia hadn’t bothered to remove his leather shoulder holster and his standard issue pistol sat menacingly against his ribs. He kept his arms crossed, his thick biceps bulging against his fists, and sat stiff and forward in his chair so his back wasn’t touching the hardback of the metal seat and he wasn’t distracted. Agent Morhen was more languid. He sat forward, his elbows balanced on the metal table, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Willshore once.

“This is completely illegal, gentlemen.” Willshore finally broke the silence, an imperceptible bead of sweat glinting off of his forehead under the bright light above the table. “I’ll ask you again for my lawyer. I could have your badges for this.”

“You don’t need a lawyer for a chat.” Vesemir replied coldly. “You can run and tell your office anything you want about being bullied by big, bad MI6, but I’d wager that our story is a lot more interesting listening.”

Willshore said nothing.

Vesemir inclined his head to Geralt and Geralt uncrossed his arms, reaching for the manila folder resting innocuously on the corner of the table, so it wasn’t the centre of attention but placed just so that its mere presence was both obvious and intimidating.

Geralt said nothing as he flicked the folder open and placed five print-outs in front of Willshore. Each image was of his own emails, each with its own coded and incriminating message on the screen. It was a mere selection, but they captured the point rather eloquently.

“Is this your email address?” Vesemir asked, his voice unreadable as he tapped the email address visible on the top of the nearest sheet of paper. Benjamin Willshore checked his cufflinks and said nothing.

“Our technical support department have traced this recipient address,” Vesemir’s finger moved along the paper, “to an abandoned villa in Khartoum, a villa that, until recently, was the residence of John and Colin Devenere. Would you care to explain why you were in coded correspondence with the very same arms dealers at the exact time my agents were on a deep cover mission there?”

Geralt cocked his head to the side.

“You told him we were there.” His voice was a growl.

Willshore wasn’t looking at them but the bead of sweat was growing and looking perilously close to dribbling down his forehead.

“These allegations are quite preposterous.”

“One of our agents was murdered at the scene.”

Geralt’s hands gripped the edge of the table and tightened and it was fortunate that the table was melded to the concrete floor otherwise he would have torn it clean off by now with how white his knuckles had turned. The embossed scars on his knuckles stood stark and proud on his veined hands and Willshore’s gaze fell to them and the bead of sweat on his forehead erupted.

“How do you plan to prove any of this without proper evidence?” He near-snarled, shoving the paper in front of him away. It fluttered to the ground almost comically.

Vesemir smirked as he leant back in his chair and folded his arms, turning his entire body to Geralt as if they were the only two people in the room.

“It’s funny how far an anonymous tip can get you nowadays, isn’t it?” Vesemir mused out loud. “Especially in the hands of the British public.”

“What?” Willshore sat forward.

“Yes, but sir…” Geralt turned to Vesemir just as easily, “…it would have to be leaked online before any kind of rumour spread. It could take weeks, or maybe even months, before petitions are signed, protests organised and what’s the outcome? An inquest for the right honourable minister to be formally investigated?”

“Is this blackmail?”

“If that happened, MI6 would be forced to withdraw its official support from the foreign office.” Vesemir blew out his cheeks. “Can you imagine such a thing? Can you _imagine_ what they’d do to the person who caused it.”

“ _Look at me!_ ”

Geralt and Vesemir turned their attentions back to Willshore. He was leant fully forward in his seat, his face shining with sweat and a near mad look in his eyes, he was a far cry from the put-together minister who had walked in and a lot more like the animals Geralt dealt with every day.

The silence sat heavy in the air for a few long moments until Vesemir broke it.

“Why did you do it?” He asked and even though it wasn’t addressed at him specifically, the disappointment in his voice clawed at Geralt’s insides. “You’re a man of power and authority, people trust you and you abuse that to kill innocent civilians, to start a war, just to line your pockets?”

“Do you have any idea what will happen if there’s a civil war in Sudan?” Willshore spat. “A war that could have been stopped if it weren’t for MI6’s _incompetency_?” He glared at Geralt as he drew out the last word and a low growl rippled from the agent’s throat.

“A vote of no-confidence for Scott Moore.” He seethed.

“ _Exactly_.” Willshore’s grin was panicked, almost predatory and Geralt felt uncomfortable, he felt sick, and he leant back in his chair and winced when his back hit the solid metal and then he was standing. The action startled the minister and he jerked back. Vesemir’s eyes were on Geralt in an instant but they soon relaxed when he realised Geralt wasn’t attempting to go for him. Geralt didn’t move, he bunched his fists together and he glared.

“You killed an innocent girl, and many more, because you want your boss’s job?” He asked softly.

“What innocent girl?” Willshore asked.

Geralt was out of the room before he could be stopped and Vesemir didn’t take his eyes off of Willshore as the door clattered shut and Willshore winced at the sound of it.

“Agent Morhen.” Willshore swallowed, his face _gleaming_ under the light. “You are a staple of British security; your taskforce has put this country on the map as one of the leaders in its defence. You must believe I’m doing this for everyone. Scott Moore is a pen-pusher, he doesn’t have what it takes to protect his country from the threats that are growing every single day. You and me, we can.”

“You can’t protect a country from terrorists by selling them guns, minister.”

“It’s for the greater good.”

What was that thing Renfri used to always say, about the lesser evil? The thought twisted Vesemir’s gut and he stood, pulling his jacket back on.

“A copy of these emails have been couriered to parliament.” He explained surprisingly blankly. “You may remain here and confess, or you may return home and wait. It’s your decision.”

Willshore’s gaze flicked to him, then the ceiling, then away and he slumped back into his chair in utter defeat.

…

Geralt shut himself in the first room he came across. It was empty except for a desk pressed against the wall and boxes and boxes of unfilled paperwork.

His nerve endings were sparking with residual electricity left over from the solid wall of the metal chair against his healing scar. The fingers inside his mind closed his eyes as he lashed out, solid fist connecting with one of the boxes. Paperwork spilled onto the floor as Geralt’s rage unfurled itself from the deep cavern of his stomach, loose and free and ravenous. It was a testament to his self-control that he’d just sat across from Renfri’s executioner and his torturer and barely moved. It was something about having Vesemir there, it made him feel calm and safe, but now he was alone, and that cocoon melted away.

He brought his hand back in front of his face. It twinged. A red screen descended over his eyes and he was sending his fist into the wall, over and over, until he was yelling in pain and anguish and fury, dropping to his knees under the weight of so many things: Renfri and John Devenere and Colin and Willshore and Jaskier.

He sobbed brokenly as he watched blood spill from the torn flesh of his knuckles, wondering why he had to hurt to feel any relief. He needed to end this, all of it, before he lost his mind.

Geralt cleaned himself up as best he could before he joined Vesemir in his office, stuffing his hands in his pockets to hide the fresh wounds scabbing on his knuckles.

Vesemir stood behind his desk, almost mirroring him with a hand in his pocket and his phone pressed to his ear. He hung up quickly after Geralt walked in and interrupted Geralt’s apology before he could even make it.

“That was Scott Moore.” Vesemir told him, sitting down and rubbing his eyes. “They’re sending agents to Willshore’s house while he’s remanded in custody.”

“Are we in shit?” Geralt asked uncharacteristically timidly.

Vesemir blew out his cheeks.

“We just made a giant fucking hole in the British government; I won’t deny it. But we pulled the fucking mole from it, so I’d call it a necessary sacrifice.”

Vesemir’s expression was momentarily hesitant before he placed his fingertips on a piece of paper Geralt hadn’t noticed on his desk and pushed it towards him.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Vesemir’s before he picked up the paper. Vesemir’s gaze skated over the cuts on his knuckles but if he reacted, it didn’t show on his face.

Geralt opened it. It was a set of co-ordinates written neatly in black ink that bled through to the other side of the page. It wasn’t a handwriting he recognised.

“John and Colin Devenere are in the Arab Emirates.” Vesemir nodded to the paper in Geralt’s hand before he had a chance to question him. “Both of them, and their crew, have been hiding out there while they sent Jack Karraway through Sudan to lead MI6 on a wild goose chase back to London.”

“Willshore told you this?”

“I told him it might reduce the charges.”

Geralt scowled.

“Will it?”

“Maybe.” He admitted with a sigh.

After a moment of silent deliberation, Geralt opened his mouth and Vesemir held up his hand to silence him.

“Yes, it’s your mission.” He said. “You fly out in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Geralt said, relief flushing through him.

“Wait-“ Geralt stilled, his relief hovering, stilted, in the air. “You’re taking a partner.”

“I-“

“You’re not going alone.”

“I won’t be alone.” Geralt tried to bargain. “I’ll have the backup team right behind me every step of the way. Vesemir, I need to do this, then as soon as I have done, I’ll take a partner, I promise.”

“Okay, fine.” Vesemir conceded with a sigh. “But if you go off the radar for a second, I’m having your ass. I’ll start recruiting. Any preferences?”

“Maybe a woman?” He ignored Vesemir’s raised brow. “Not to replace her, there are just loads of good female agents out there, that’s all.”

Vesemir smirked and Geralt smirked back and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Geralt turned back, “I have one more condition.”

“Sir?”

“I want the kid back.”

Geralt blinked but he knew exactly what Vesemir was talking about and he needed no further clarification. It opened a pit in his stomach that he’d been trying to ignore for weeks. He wanted Jaskier back in his life, that was just the truth, but it was for a very different reason than Vesemir. He missed him. He missed the way he felt around him, the way he was around him, he missed the little ball of happiness and hope that bobbed about in his stomach when he saw those wide, nervous eyes.

It took a very strong but very broken part of Geralt to shake his head against the thing he wanted so strongly, something that crowded his dreams more than John Devenere did sometimes, but still he did it.

“I promised him MI6 would never darken his doorstep again.” Geralt admitted miserably. “I gave him my word.”

“Why would you promise such a thing?” Vesemir frowned.

“He ate a fry up.”

“Don’t get clever with me, Geralt, I’m in no mood.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Geralt swallowed around his worry, because really his word meant nothing if Vesemir decided against it. All he could do was prey that Vesemir would want to protect an innocent life as much as he did and show some mercy on the pair of them.

“I won’t break your word.” Vesemir said even if he did look a little jaded. “But would you be opposed to me offering to employ him? Properly, I mean, in the tech support department.”

“Vesemir?”

“He hacked the foreign office, Ger, I can’t let that go. It’s impressive but it’s also fucking dangerous if he starts working for someone else.”

“I know how special he is.” Geralt’s voice was low and somewhat desperate as he walked back to the desk and pressed his hands against the varnished wood, his knuckles cracking painfully. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and I know he’s fucking wasted but I also know how dangerous this life is, don’t bring him back into it.”

“It’s his choice, you’re not his- “

Geralt’s eyes snapped up to him before they eased away again.

“ _Please_.” He murmured.

Vesemir didn’t respond straight away. He didn’t think he’d ever heard that word come out of Geralt’s mouth, even if he’d seen it in his eyes enough times. It was in that moment that Vesemir understood something he hadn’t before. Maybe Geralt’s despondency since bringing down the syndicate hadn’t been purely from the Sudan mission, maybe he’d given his word to Jaskier because he cared for him and maybe he was protecting him now because he still did.

“He won’t be in any danger.” Vesemir promised.

Geralt stepped back and Vesemir could see the deliberations on his face as he ran his scabbing fingers through his light hair.

“Technical support should be safe.” He finally muttered. He looked up at Vesemir and the worry in his light eyes was offset by something Vesemir could only describe as _gratitude_.


	14. a bad reputation and insatiable habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a heads up, this chapter contains torture, drug use and allusions to non con. Please be prepared for whatever the hell Colin is.

Chapter Fourteen

_a bad reputation and insatiable habits_

Jaskier stepped off of the train at Paddington station with apprehension in his heart. He looked around the hustle and bustle of commuters and his heart rate sped up instinctively. He took a deep breath, slung his bag over his shoulder and crossed the packed station to a coffee shop.

He ordered a tall, black americano from the pretty barrister and once he’d sat down and dumped twelve sugar packets into the dark drink, stirring it with the wooden stirrer and watching the bubbles churning under his too-heavy ministrations, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the folded letter.

It was printed on expensive stationary that had sat heavy in Jaskier’s pocket all the way here as if a reminder of what he was walking into. It had no bold header, no signature, just his name and the following instructions:

_Julian A. Pankratz,_

_You are formally invited to attend 85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, London, on August 14 th, 11am. Ensure you come alone._

_Yours, kindly._

It wasn’t signed because it didn’t need to be. Jaskier knew MI6’s London office when he saw it.

Jaskier’s heart had jumped into his throat when the correspondence had been couriered to his parent’s doorstep a week previously.

He had no idea what MI6 would suddenly want with him. He understood why they’d _written_ to him, of all things, it was because they no longer had this telephone number, what with his iphone gathering dust in his flat and his Samsung taken away at the scene after the syndicate arrest. They knew he was staying with his folks, they’d contacted him there before, and this was the first time it ever occurred to him to consider how they knew that because Jaskier was pretty sure he’d only alluded to the idea around Geralt.

He’d spent the first few days in a blind panic. There was no way to miss it because it had been on every news channel and every newspaper in the country. _Everywhere_ was in uproar about it. The foreign minister for the middle east, Benjamin Willshore, had been arrested for suspected treason and terrorism plots and remanded in custody while his home and correspondence was investigated.

Jaskier had initially been pleased that something had come of his efforts, if not a little intimidated by the massive impact he’d caused. As such, he’d tried to avoid it all and then the letter had come, and he could avoid it no longer.

Of course, he’d immediately assumed that MI6 knew, and they’d decoded his message or traced the memory stick back to him, but after a few days of anxiety-fuelled panic, the logical part of his brain had kicked in. He’d covered his tracks, the memory stick decidedly untraceable, he’d always been confident in his abilities if nothing else. But more than that, if they indeed did know, they would have descended on him like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, dragged him from his bed in the middle of the night and bundled him into a non-descript car with no number plates. They wouldn’t be sending him fancy letters like the one in his hand.

So, really, Jaskier had no idea why MI6, though he supposed more specifically it was the anti-terrorism task force, had requested his presence. A hopeful and pathetic part of his brain wished that it was from Geralt, but he knew it wasn’t true, it was just a daydream that had kept him company on the train.

He brought the still-hot coffee to his lips and took a sip, revitalising himself after his long train journey. It wasn’t just the impending meeting that was on his mind though, it was that he’d lied to his parents, _again_.

He’d told them he had a job interview because it was the first appropriate thing that had popped into his head, for some fictitious I.T support company in Millbank. His mother had been thrilled and had insisted on coming with him, but he’d managed to talk her out of it. He’d lied to them because the lie was nicer, and easier than the truth. He might have been in trouble or MI6 might be looking to regain his less than reputable services. He’d promised them that his involvement with MI6 was over and he’d broken it, but he was able to comfort himself with the fact that he wasn’t allowed to tell them anyway.

He finished his coffee slowly before making his way to Vauxhall and two things crossed his mind as he stepped into the imposing white building and was scanned through by a guard.

The first was that, although somewhat regal, it looked and felt much the same as any other office building in London. He stepped into the marble-floored foyer with the large front desk and looked around himself. The second thing he realised was that he was underdressed. The men and women that passed him were wearing tailored suits and they looked sharp and dignified while Jaskier wore battered jeans and a long-sleeved t shirt to hide the scars on his arm. Part of him wanted to bolt back out as soon as he’d stepped inside, and the noise clawed at his eardrums and pricked at his skin like needles but he just took a slow, deep breath before taking the necessary steps forward to the front desk. The woman sat behind it looked up at him with a neutral expression.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Jaskier said quietly, passing the letter over to her before grabbing his own wrist to stop the tremor in his hand. He tried to keep his eyes on the desk, but it was hard to stop them from darting around the lobby like prey looking for a predator.

“Of course, Mr. Pankratz. Please wait here and you’ll be escorted to the necessary department.”

Jaskier blinked and then nodded as she turned away from him in her chair to answer the phone. He hovered awkwardly for a moment before backing away from the desk. There were no chairs, so he leant against the wall and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He wasn’t waiting long until a young man with slicked-back blond hair and a tweed jacket appeared from a side corridor and approached him.

“Austin?” Jaskier murmured in greeting, the familiar face setting him at ease almost instantly. His bowed back relaxed against the wall.

“Good memory.” Austin chuckled, sticking his hand out for Jaskier to shake. Jaskier apprehended it for a moment before taking it. Austin’s grip was strong and Jaskier watched his arm jolt.

“I barely recognise you out of that flat, you’re looking well, Jaskier. Follow me.”

Austin was off like a rocket and Jaskier had to gather his thoughts before he followed him. He’d just been called ‘Jaskier’ for the first time in weeks. He actually felt a modicum of relaxation at the familiar moniker as he followed Austin down a corridor and into a lift.

They didn’t talk much as they travelled four floors up despite the agent trying to initiate a conversation a couple of times before getting bored with Jaskier’s one-worded replies. Soon enough, Jaskier was being led to the far end of a marbled-floored corridor and he watched as Austin knocked swiftly on the heavy wooden door before disappearing inside.

Jaskier glanced around himself at the sleek, understated marble and the rows and rows of office doors which probably contained all manner of information you could get shot for knowing. This was Geralt’s world; beautiful and seductive and dangerous.

Barely a moment later and Austin had reappeared and was holding the door wide. Jaskier stepped inside and Austin smiled at him, said ‘good luck’, and closed the door on him.

Jaskier turned instinctively to the large but sparsely furnished office with a desk covered in paperwork. A man sat behind this messy desk. He was in his late fifties with salt and pepper hair neatly tied back and wearing a crisp white dress shirt with a black tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and revealing a pair of thick, muscular forearms. He looked like he had no business wearing a suit.

He put his pen down and looked up at Jaskier, greeting him with what appeared to be an uncharacteristic but warm smile.

“The famous Jaskier.” He stood and held his hand out. “Or Julian, if you prefer, it’s good to finally put a face to a name. I’m Agent Vesemir Morhen and I’m the director of MI6’s anti-terrorism task force.”

“Vesemir.” Jaskier’s face cleared. “Sorry, uh, Agent Morhen.”

Vesemir’s face broke out into a crinkly smile.

“No need for that, lad, have a seat.”

Jaskier sat awkwardly down in the proffered seat and Vesemir followed suit, he leant back and rested his arms on the arms of his leather chair as he apprehended Jaskier. Jaskier swallowed and tried not to look uncomfortable and therefore resisted the urge to pull his legs up to his chest.

“How have you been?” Vesemir finally asked, gesturing vaguely. “Since…everything.”

“Good, thank you, sir.” Jaskier responded shyly.

“And your family?”

Jaskier was a little surprised that Vesemir had remembered the syndicate and the home invasion before he shook his head and reminded himself that he’d probably reread up on him before he’d arrived.

“They’re better. I can’t thank you enough for what happened.”

“Well,” Vesemir pushed his pen across the table. “From what I hear, you were, as my technician’s put it, _exemplary_.”

Jaskier flushed bright red and his eyes hit the floor.

“Oh, I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m told you have an eidetic memory.”

Jaskier was surprised. Again, he was sure he’d only ever mentioned that to Geralt.

“Yeah. Ever since I was a kid. I don’t know why; it comes in handy every now and again.”

“Like quick thinking and resourcefulness in high-stress scenarios?” Vesemir raised an eyebrow.

Jaskier said nothing.

“I won’t beat about the bush, lad, I’m too old and grey for that. I want to offer you a job, not like before, not off the books, not since Willshore was arrested, but as a technician in our I.T department. Largely speaking, you’ll be assisting the task force with research and surveillance and, maybe in time, you can assist with field work as well.”

“F-field work?”

“Like the syndicate in your home, on site with the agents, keeping them alive.” Vesemir smiled then. “What do you say? Basic starting wage is 25k.”

Jaskier blinked. When he’d told his mum, he was going for a job interview, he’d never expected there to be any truth in that.

“Are you serious?” He asked. “Why me?”

“Why not? Who else is there?”

“ _Anyone_ else. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, sir, but I’ve been on the wrong side of the law for a long time, and-“ he bit back the drug use. He hadn’t used in weeks and he wanted to keep it that way. There was something Vesemir wasn’t telling him, that much was obvious, but if he knew anything about Willshore or the memory stick, he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Because you _are_ exemplary, young man. Your talents are wasted whether you’re selling fake I.D’s or doing nothing at all. I’m not in the habit of letting that pass by. You’re good at what you do, why not get a salary for it?” He shrugged.

Jaskier appreciated Vesemir’s forthright manner, it reminded him of Geralt, in a way. He found himself at ease which made it simpler to consider the proposal offered to him. Of course, he’d thought about getting a job, or what the hell else was he supposed to do with his life? If he went back to his backroom then how long would it be before someone else with a gun knocked on his door? Being in his line of work had led him straight to the syndicate, which wasn’t as bad when he wasn’t in contact with his family, but now it was dangerous, and he just had too much to lose. He could gamble with his life but no one else’s. Not only was this a job, but it also happened to be a job that would bring him back to London, back to his flat, which was something he’d long desired. He’d enjoyed having his family back, but he needed space, he needed a life back.

“Okay.” He nodded somewhat seriously. “T-thank you.”

Vesemir slapped the table.

“Fantastic, can’t wait to have you on board, Julian, you can start in the next fortnight.”

They discussed the job a bit more, some of the risks and requirements, such as having a cover story for family and friends, and privileges and restrictions, but when Vesemir asked if Jaskier had any questions for him, only one came to mind.

“I was wondering,” he admitted, with a tinge in his cheeks. “I was wondering how Geralt was doing.” It came out meek and shy and he winced, but it was too important not to say.

A look passed over Vesemir’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. When he answered, he might as well have been telling Jaskier the time.

“Geralt’s fine. He’s in the Arab Emirates. We received a tip that a group of arms dealers he’s been dealing with have been hiding out there.”

Jaskier frowned as a wave of panic shot through him. Whatever they’d gotten out of Willshore must have included the whereabouts of the arms dealers from the Sudan mission and Jaskier’s gut twisted. This was what he’d wanted, right? To help Geralt find them? Yet sending the man with the scar on his back straight to the people who had given him it sat heavy and wrong in Jaskier’s stomach.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“You know Geralt, lad, he can take care of himself.”

Jaskier was still frowning as he nodded. He had to trust Geralt for the agent he was, and that he would come through as he always did. It was only then that his frown deepened for a different reason.

“Wait, why are you telling me this?”

“Because” Vesemir grinned, “you’re one of us now.”

…

Geralt crouched low outside of a run-down cottage in the slums of Abu Dhabi. Even in the dead of night, the heat prickled uncomfortably at Geralt’s skin like the dark sky above was a thick blanket suffocating him into the earth. The streets were bare and sandy, just on the outskirts of the city where miles of dusty, dead-tree terrain roamed free with naught but a few dilapidated homesteads and farms to break it up.

The cottage Geralt crept up on was bricked up and run down, perched on the edge of a produce farm. Even from here, Geralt could smell the faint whisp of shrubbery and spice in the air. It honestly didn’t match the hard-boozing, heavy-living _glamour_ Geralt had associated with the Devenere brothers in Khartoum, but they were lying low, and these were Willshore’s co-ordinates, and Geralt wouldn’t be leaving here without John’s head.

He’d spent a lot of time with John and Colin, eighteen months’ worth of time, and he knew them better than anyone else. John was the brains of the operation and Colin was the brawn, like a psychotic dog on the end of this master’s leash. Even so, Geralt knew he’d be able to take the pair of them easily and as soon as he did, they’d either come willingly or he got to kill them and then this whole sorry affair would be over.

Geralt checked the magazine of his gun from instinct, slotting it back into place with a metallic _click_ and flicking off the safety. He looked around himself, but he was still alone. His back-up, a six-man team of extraction agents, sat in a helicopter hovering silently above, ready to dive down should he be caught but the thought didn’t do much to comfort him. His mind was blank as he focused on the mission and a part of him mistook that blankness for calm.

Geralt crept around the cottage, stealthy and silent, just as he’d been trained before he neared the front door. His boots barely crunched on the dirt floor, his black gloves whispering against the brick work of the wall as he knelt low and righted himself. He was dressed all in black, with a Kevlar stab vest snug around him. His hair was tied tight and high off his face in a top knot and he had a dagger strapped to his thigh, another concealed in his boot and a second pistol on his hip. The helicopter that hovered silent above acted as surveillance as well as back up, and John and Colin Devenere had entered the cottage six hours ago and neither of them had come out since. They were probably both inside, talking and drinking, straight-talking John with his straight-scotch and the bratty brother with his self-fixed martini, both unaware of the white wolf stalking them.

The lock was quick work and Geralt rose to his full height, keeping his gun low and gripping the door handle. The door opened before he registered it and a man with a familiar face barrelled into him. The surprise and heavy weight of the newcomer sent Geralt tumbling back painfully into the dirt. He growled and tried to right himself, but the man’s dead weight was on his abdomen and it kept him pined. He knew where he recognised that twisted scowl now, it was one of John’s entourage or ‘heavies’ as they’d always been affectionately called. Behind them both, bodies swarmed out of the now open front door like cockroaches out of dead wood and descended on them.

Two men were on either side of Geralt, their feet crushing his splayed wrists to the ground and keeping him pinned as he struggled. He turned his head and didn’t see the blow before it hit. The wallop tore across his jaw and sent his brain spinning in his skull as his head collided painfully with the dirt.

The noise that escaped Geralt’s mouth was part-groan, part-growl from a mixture of pain and fury. He spat blood and watched it congeal in the dirt next to him before he felt a heavy weight on his neck. He wheezed as his windpipe was crushed and turned his head back the best he could to see a boot pressed solidly against his Adam’s apple. His eyes travelled up the leg, clad in tight, dark jeans, past a navy-blue, button-down shirt open low in the heat of the evening, the collar of a familiar black leather jacket and stopped at a manic grin and a shock of long, brown hair falling into sparkling, mad eyes Geralt knew all too well.

Colin Devenere.

“Good to see you again, _Geralt_.” Colin drawled, putting emphasis on Geralt’s real name, almost mockingly. He cocked his head to the side. “Never did get a chance to apologise about what I did to your girl. It’s a shame, really. I would have liked to fuck her one last time.”

Geralt snarled and thrashed but his arms had started to go numb from the weight crushing his wrists and with the solid mass on his abdomen pinning him to the floor and Colin’s boot against his oesophagus, he couldn’t move.

Colin dug his heel harder into Geralt’s neck and the agent gagged and choked as he thrashed uselessly beneath him and Colin’s mouth widened into a leering grin as he enjoyed Geralt’s discomfort.

“Uh, uh, uh.” He chastised. “None of that, white wolf, I’m in charge here, not you.”

A silver flash caught Geralt’s eye as Colin raised a Desert Eagle .50 and pointed it at Geralt’s head.

It wasn’t the first time Geralt had stared down the barrel of a gun, but as with every other time, it may well be the last. The outward reaction changed with time, but the panic never did. Geralt _knew_ Colin, both from the time he’d spent in the sadist’s company and on what Renfri reported back to him. The man was unhinged, and often-times smacked off of his face on cocaine and he had a cruel, violent streak he took out on the competition, on strangers, even on Renfri herself from time to time. Geralt had been on the verge of going after him many times and Renfri had always talked him out of it. Colin was the brawn of the operation, the Ronnie to John’s Reggie, the one who had killed Renfri. He was the one who had murdered and mutilated her into the corpse Geralt saw every time he closed his eyes. Colin could pull the trigger with no questions asked and Geralt knew it, and Colin knew he knew it. Geralt collapsed limply to the ground.

“That’s better.” Colin smirked.

Geralt’s breathing was shallow and he forced his gaze away from the gun barrel and instead met Colin’s dark eyes.

“How?” His voice was high and strained from the pressure on his neck.

“You think Willshore wouldn’t want to do his friends one final favour, like, I don’t know, warning them that MI6 knew where they were.” Colin gesticulated as he spoke, waving his gun back and forth and Geralt winced. This would have been the perfect opportunity to disarm him and to see that slip away while he was weighed down made him growl in annoyance. He didn’t even know where his own gun was, probably lying in the dirt somewhere, and he sure as hell couldn’t reach any of the other weapons strapped to him. He glared up at the sky. The helicopter must have clocked onto this by now, surely, they must be on their descent?

Geralt’s jaw was beginning to throb from the strike and his own blood was pooling in the back of his throat. He choked on it and sprayed flecks of blood over the toe of Colin’s boot.

Colin laughed and moved his foot away. Geralt sucked in oxygen desperately, it battered his abused windpipe on the way down, but he couldn’t care less. He was so distracted by his need for air that he barely noticed Colin tucking his Desert Eagle into the waist band of his jeans and lowering himself down. He planted his knees on either side of Geralt’s thick chest before he was straddling him and leaning forward until those mad eyes were mere inches from Geralt’s own.

Geralt liked to think he’d seen it all, that he was afraid of no one, but Colin’s eyes were hazy and fucked and his brain was addled by a mixture of cocaine and his own psychosis. He was like the antithesis to Jaskier, in a dreaded sense; manic and happy and unpredictable.

Colin’s broad, long-fingered hands were suddenly bunched in the collar of Geralt’s stab vest and hauling him up off the floor with surprising strength. Geralt winced as the heels of the boots on his wrists dug deeper and the vulnerable bones in his forearms tremored dangerously as his torso was dragged up, bending his spine into an uncomfortable position. Colin’s expression darkened as if someone had turned the brightness down on his face and then his fist pulled back from Geralt’s vest and connected with his temple and Geralt crumpled back to the ground. Geralt tasted dirt as his vision went hazy and he screeched and winced as a blood vessel burst in his left eye and skewered his vision with red.

He was dragged up again, his wrists screaming at him before Colin’s solid knuckles collided with his cheekbone and his eyes rattled in his skull and pain exploded there. He cried out hoarsely, forcing blood and spittle out of his mouth.

Colin dropped his vest and Geralt fell like a sack of shit to the ground. His face was on fire, his vision blurred, he could barely make out the sky above, let alone any helicopters that should have been hovering there.

Then his hazy, red vision was crowded by Colin’s face, his manic eyes narrowed, his hot breath ghosting over Geralt’s split lip.

“You betrayed us.” Colin muttered, almost intimately. “John’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

Geralt groaned as he felt the unmistakable prick of something sharp in the side of his neck. The effect was instant, and it felt like his veins were being pumped with lead and his entire body collapsed heavily against the ground. He thought he felt a hand pawing at his chest, and he moaned quietly at Colin’s disgustingly familiar palm before he was flipping Geralt’s tracker over in his hand. He stood, dropped the innocuous black device to the ground and crushed it under his boot beside Geralt’s head.

“Get him up.” Colin barked and Geralt gurgled as the pressure was removed from his body and he was dragged to his feet. His head span and nausea rocked through him as he was righted. Two men gripped his arms and his boots made pathways in the dirt as he was dragged.

A black, transit van with no plates came into view and Geralt attempted to dig his heels in but blood was pouring from his mouth and his body was heavy and limp from whatever tranquiliser they’d injected him with and the next thing he knew he was being shoved unceremoniously into the back of the van. His shoulder collided painfully with the metal body of the van as it lurched into reverse and he blinked away a bloody tear and tried to regain any strength he could before he slumped, unconscious.

Above them, a helicopter followed the unregistered vehicle for ten kilometres before it disappeared into the slums of Abu Dhabi and was lost.

…

Geralt didn’t remember falling asleep but when he awoke, it took a few moments for his mind to catch up with his body. He felt intense panic in his gut and didn’t know why until his body came back online and he felt the solid plank of wood against his back. He tried to move but he couldn’t. His groggy, sore limbs were bound to the wooden chair, the back stiff against his spine. Geralt began to hyperventilate, the heat rising in his neck as the pain in his face and throat returned to him. It was a dull throb compared to the hot agony it had been before, but it was still enough to make him wince. He tried desperately to keep his breathing level, to call on his years of training and experience that always seemed to look for the nearest exit when he needed it most.

After a few moments of breathing, his heart rate began to slow, and his instincts began to kick in. if he was going to get out of this alive, as he’d done countless times before, he needed his head.

He tried to move his head and gauge his surroundings. He was in a small, dark room with grime on the walls. The only light came from the moon above that shone through a grimy skylight and Geralt could barely see an inch in front of his face. The movement of his neck sent lightening bolts of pain down his spine. His neck was stiff, the flesh of his face felt tight against his bones and his entire body ached with cuts and bruises he didn’t know the number of. He grimaced as he swallowed and tasted blood on his tongue.

He forced the pain to the back of his mind and glared down at himself. The ropes binding his wrists and his ankles to the chair were thick and not something he could break out of without a knife. He looked instinctively to the blade strapped to his thigh only to find it missing. It was then that Geralt realised he was completely bare on his top half, shirtless and exposed, and he could feel his hair tickling his neck where it had come lose from his knot. His trousers and boots still thankfully graced his body and the alternative made him feel sick.

The door across the room creaked open like something out of a horror film and Geralt’s lip trembled imperceptibly. Every time he was bound and tortured like this, he promised himself it was the last time, and every time he was wrong. Every time he felt a little bit of his sanity breaking away from him and remaining in the dark, oppressive chambers of his prison until there was nothing of Geralt left. It was hard, in this moment, to keep any of his sanity. His tracker had been destroyed and without it he was as good as dead.

Colin walked in first, followed closely by his brother and as soon as Geralt saw John Devenere again it was like no time had passed since the last time he’d seen him, when he’d tried to slice Geralt in half and shown him the photographs of Renfri’s mangled body like it was his fault.

Many people had asked him, including his therapist, why he hated John more than Colin, and often Geralt had found himself lying awake and asking himself the same question. Colin had been the one who had killed her, hadn’t he? So why didn’t Geralt want to rip him to shreds in the same way he wanted John? The answer was that Colin wore who he was on his face, but his coked-out, mad brain would never have come up with any of this on its own and he himself would never act without instruction. John Devenere was more than just the mastermind; he was pure evil. He killed innocents and tortured and maimed and he twisted and destroyed his little brother’s sick little mind to do it.

The two brothers stopped in front of him and it was an interesting reunion after all the time they’d been apart. John advanced on him while Colin pulled Geralt’s own dagger from his belt with a practised flick of his wrist. John paid him no mind as he dusted white powder along the steel of the blade, sniffing it deep before growling and rubbing his chapped nostrils with the back of his hand.

John stopped in front of Geralt, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his beige slacks. He looked years older than the last time Geralt had seen him. He didn’t know if it was rage or anguish or just the burst blood vessel in his eye, but all Geralt could see was _red_.

“Agent Rivia.” John’s voice was stoic. “It’s good to see you again. You haven’t changed.”

Geralt didn’t respond in kind to tell him that the stresses of running from MI6 hadn’t treated him well. Whereas Colin was long-haired, young and strong, John was older and greyer. His shirt was dark with sweat and open in the humidity to reveal curling white chest hairs and his eyes were drawn out with dark bags beneath them. He’d always been a meek man, it was why he needed people like Geralt to protect him, it was why he’d trusted him with his life.

“You fucked everything up for us, Rivia.” John said quietly. “We had to run from the villa and hide in this shit heap until the heat died down and now you’ve gone and got fucking Willshore arrested. I should have gutted you like I intended to.”

“Not killing me was the biggest mistake you ever made.” Geralt growled, his bicep muscles jumping beneath his skin as his wrists strained against the rope. “I’m going to tear your fucking throat out!”

Colin laughed and John struck Geralt across the face.

Geralt had been hit harder, very recently in fact, but the slap aggravated the tear on his cheek and the throbbing in his eye and he groaned as his head fell limp against his shoulder. A hand grasped his chin harshly and forced his face up.

“What do you want from me?” Geralt panted, his voice a pained wheeze. “I can’t tell you anything.”

“I don’t want anything from you but your life.” John replied simply before dropping Geralt’s head and moving away.

Geralt kept his eyes on the floor but even in the dark room, he could see Colin’s boots stalking towards him, then the tip of his own dagger being dragged up his bare stomach, flecks of cocaine still on the steel, leaving a bloody and stinging trail in its wake before it dipped into the soft flesh above his clavicle.

He lifted his head to see Colin staring at him interestedly. His pupils were so engorged it was like his eyes were black and his head was cocked to the side with his hair falling over his shoulder, giving him the look of a confused puppy.

Geralt winced as the tip of his dagger pierced his skin and he felt the hot blood dribble down his abdomen, snaking through his abdominal muscles like a maze.

“You know,” Colin mused, “this is usually the part where they beg.”

Geralt said nothing and the knife slid in deeper and he fought to keep his expression blank as his flesh was carved from his body.

“I regret killing her.” Colin admitted, but the sincerity of his words didn’t reach his hazy eyes. “I really do.” His brow furrowed like Geralt was no longer in the room with him and he was seeing something else entirely. “But when she died, she screamed and begged so prettily.” He laughed hauntingly and a grin stretched wide like a wound across his face. “’ _Help me, Geralt, save me, Geralt_.’ It was very amusing.”

Geralt’s heart thumped in his chest and the pain warped into something far worse than the dagger could ever inflict upon him.

Geralt flung his head forward and the solid bone of his forehead crunched into the weak cartilage of Colin’s nose. Colin yelled and reared back, his yelps of pain warping into masochistic, unhinged laughter as his hand went to his face. He looked down on Geralt through his fingers as blood poured from his chapped nostrils and smiled, as if the pain somehow made him _happy_.

His hand fell away, and he leant over Geralt, his bloody hand grasping the back of the chair behind him and leaning so close that the agent could smell the coppery tang of blood up his nose.

“You’re going to regret that.” Colin said quietly.

Colin buried the blade of Geralt’s dagger into the meat of his shoulder and Geralt screamed as his flesh was torn, his hard muscle nothing to the unyielding steel of the knife. Colin pulled it free as soon as he’d buried it and blood spurted from the fresh wound like a geyser. Colin’s finger penetrated the bloody wound and twisted and the sound Geralt made was not human as he bucked hard against the agony and the chair beneath him groaned.

Colin’s face dropped like a stage curtain and his fist connected with Geralt’s abused face. Geralt lost count of the number of punches as blood poured from his mouth. It was like the bastard had titanium-plated knuckles and with every strike Geralt knew something was going to break. But then he stopped and Geralt slumped as Colin dropped to one knee in front of him, his face red with blood, his eyes wide and manic, as he gripped Geralt’s dagger in one hand and reached for the button of his trousers with the other.

“Wha…no.” Geralt managed to slur weakly, tears of pain and fret wetting his cheeks as his agonised body tremored and memories of drunken conversations and wandering hands and knife handles swam across his mind. “Not…”

Colin’s hand abandoned his zip in favour of grasping Geralt’s lip cock and smirking up at him as he licked the blood from his lips and twirled the blade in his hand – slicing his own palm open without realising as he ran the black handle over Geralt’s thigh.

“You gonna be a good boy for Daddy?” Colin breathed.

“For fucks sake.” John’s voice cut across Geralt’s terror and a hand was on Colin’s shoulder and dragging him up. Geralt gasped and shook as the hand against him fell away and his heart thudded in his chest and _fuck fuck fuck_

“There’s a fucking time and place, Col.” John growled, releasing his brother’s shoulder.

“The fucking bastard broke my nose.”

“Then you’d better run and get it fixed up before it heals wrong and no one wants to fuck you anymore.”

Colin scowled at his brother as the blood dribbled down from his nose and dried black on his chin. He turned to leave before his frame was baring down on Geralt again and his hand was in Geralt’s hair and forcing his head back and Geralt’s mouth fell open in a moan of pain. Colin kept his gaze, his eyes dark and dangerous and pissed off, as he let a glob of blood and spittle fall from his mouth and land on Geralt’s tongue. Geralt’s groan was ragged and tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

“To remember me by.” Colin whispered raggedly. “I want you to die with me inside you, just like your girl did.” He released Geralt’s hair and stalked from the room and Geralt spat as soon as he was free. It was only when he raised his head that he realised he was alone with John.

The fury he felt at Colin’s taunting words was muted by the agony in his broken flesh and he barely noticed it when John knelt in front of him.

“I thought you were my friend.” John’s miserable voice cut through the darkness and Geralt might as well have been dreaming. His eyes jolted pitifully, and he forgot, he forgot all that had happened and all that had changed since he’d been extracted from Sudan and barely alive. It felt like he was sat beside John Devenere on a couch with a glass of scotch and somewhere Renfri was still alive. Tears rolled down his face.

“I thought I could trust you.” John continued brokenly. “You betrayed me. You think you’re the good guy, don’t you, Agent Rivia? You spent months, _years_ , by my side and it meant nothing to you. What kind of monster are you? I should have let Colin finish you off.”

Geralt’s head was heavy but he forced his eyes up to meet his murderer’s.

“It’s not him I’m after. It’s _you_.”

“I never fucking touched your partner.”

Geralt almost laughed at the _audacity_ of this man to somehow be stood there and believe he was innocent of murder because he didn’t pull the trigger. He’d never had John down as naive, which meant he was lying.

“You think if you stand there all quiet and unassuming, no one will notice what you really are?” Geralt spat. “I fucking see you.” He blinked away bloody tears and the stress on his body made his whole frame tremor. “Her name was Renfri. She had a sister and a mother, and they’ll never know what she did or how she died and in some ways that’s a mercy. She died trying to stop you kill innocent people and I’m proud of that.” The tears rolling down his cheeks were no longer from pain. “Do what you want to me, but I swear to god, I will follow you to hell to get my revenge.”

John’s expression turned blank as he stood quietly, his shirt raising and revealing a black pistol tucked away in his belt. He pulled it free and turned the barrel to Geralt’s forehead and Geralt didn’t even have time to gasp.

“You’ll get there before me.” Was all John said before he fired.


	15. lost and empty souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heads up for violence, death, drug use and very mild references to suicidal thoughts

Chapter Fifteen

lost and empty souls

Jaskier opened the door to his flat in Millbank for the first time in months, the peeling paint and aged wood a welcome sight to him. He was laden with bags and he groaned in relief as he dumped everything down on the inside of the door and closed it shut behind him.

He toed off his trainers and kicked them into the corner with the rest of his shoes and turned to look down the short, red-carpeted corridor with a small smile. It was hard to believe he was actually home, and it was hard to believe that a man had almost killed him in this exact spot. It felt like a dream now and the anxiety it stirred didn’t attack him in quite the same way.

Jaskier’s iphone lay abandoned on the top of the small table by the door, exactly where he’d left it when Geralt had given him the chipped Samsung that had inadvertently protected him more than either of them realised.

He picked up the iphone and a layer of dust rested over the screen and Jaskier wiped it off on his sleeve before thumbing the button at the side. It was dead, as he’d expected. He slipped it into his jeans pocket before picking up the many bags again and walking into his flat.

It looked exactly the same as the day he’d left it. The living room was in complete disarray; the couch cushions were on the floor; the coffee table was shoved to the side and the TV stand was pulled out where Geralt had torn the place apart looking for any tracking devices or weapons the syndicate had left behind. Jaskier ignored the mess and went into the kitchen.

His mother had furnished him with enough food to keep him fed for a year and he filled his fridge with various Tupperware containers and bottles which lightened his luggage load considerably.

He dumped the remaining bags filled with clothes and belongings in the corner of his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed, rolling onto his back, and staring up at the ceiling. His hands came to rest on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It was good to be home and to be surrounded by his possessions and his own space, but it was awfully quiet after the weeks he’d spent surrounded by his family. He reached across the bed and fumbled in one of his bags before coming back with a white envelope. He opened it with a heavy rustle and slipped the card out for the thousandth time since he’d received it. It was a simple blue card with a cartoon, anthropomorphic teddy bear on the front wearing a pink tie and carrying a briefcase. The words ‘ _Good luck in your new job!_ ’ were embossed on the front and well-wishes from his parents and Priscilla were inside.

He’d told them his cover story, that he’d got a job in technical support for a mailing company, and it wasn’t too far off the truth. Luckily, they hadn’t asked too many questions. They were probably just grateful that Jaskier was starting to get his life together.

Jaskier stared at the ceiling blankly for the longest time. Was this what it was like getting your life together? Because right now it sucked.

…

On Monday morning, Jaskier was again stood in the lobby of MI6’s London office with a shorter haircut, a white dress shirt tucked into dark slacks and an ID badge that said ‘Julian’. It was apt, really, because he didn’t feel like himself.

His supervisor, a lady called Ellie Clarke, had taken him through his initiation in a small lecture room. He’d taken notes out of common courtesy, but his brain remembered everything she told him, regardless. The initiation had been a long session about what his role was and what was expected of him and the type of work he’d be focusing on. He’d been told he’d be working with the team that aided the anti-terrorism task force, just as Vesemir had said, and Jaskier’s heart still skipped a beat when he heard it confirmed. He wondered if that meant he’d get to see Geralt again, maybe even help him with his work just like he’d done with Willshore. He wished it didn’t make him as giddy as it did, but the butterflies were there anything.

He came to understand pretty quickly that the first few weeks would be pretty much wall to wall training, both of their software and protocols, and maybe even some simulations of supporting live field work, if Jaskier were up to it. He highly suspected he was, but he merely told Ellie he’d do his best. She’d seemed pleased with that.

The workspace afforded to the technical support department was on the lower levels and it looked to be pretty much the entire floor. The room was vast with light carpets and overhead lights and rows and rows of computer desks. It looked far too clean and clinical for the works that were done here, Jaskier could be stood in a sales office and never know the difference.

He’d been shown to a computer at the far end of the room in the corner by a window with the blinds open. Sunlight streamed across the blank monitor, highlighting the flecks of dust floating in the air in its glow and when Jaskier turned it on, the keys on the keyboard were warm under his fingers. The monitor came slowly to life in front of him and Jaskier stared blankly at it. He was nervous and he had to stop his hands from fidgeting. It didn’t feel like any of this was really happening, it was a dream and he’d wake up from a heroin-induced blackout on the floor of his back room at home.

Ellie left his side and Jaskier’s head snapped to her to see her hurrying across the room. Several people were gathered around a cluster of monitors in the middle of the department, all talking quietly but heatedly among themselves. Jaskier’s supervisor joined them and he frowned and craned his neck, trying to figure out what was going on. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good.

His computer loaded and he spared it one glance before he was on his feet and across the room. He ran a hand through his hair to distract his fidgeting hands, still surprising himself with how short it was, before he joined the group of troubled technicians. No one looked up as he approached.

“Is everything okay?” He asked quietly.

“Julian.” Ellie looked up at him. “I apologise for this; we’re experiencing a bit of a crisis at the moment.”

Jaskier frowned and cocked his head to the side.

“Can I help? What’s going on?”

A man whose name Jaskier didn’t know, with a dark green jacket and light hair, shoved a bunch of papers across the desk to him.

“We’ve got an extraction mission in progress in Abu Dhabi.” He said hurriedly. Jaskier looked down at the papers in front him. The first was an aerial map of the city with markings that meant nothing to him. The writing along the top said ‘ ** _Abu Dhabi, Arab Emirates_** ’ and Jaskier stilled. “One of the anti-terrorism task force closed in on the target and he’s been declared M.I.A for six hours. We lost his primary tracker and we’re doing everything we can to remotely activate a secondary tracker, but the chances are, he’s already dead.”

“Which agent?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t know why. He already knew the answer.

“Geralt Rivia.”

A cold ball of dread thickened in Jaskier’s stomach until he was full with it. Tendrils of cold wrapped around his organs and dragged him down, down, until it felt like he was underwater. The voices around him got further and further away and the room span, the map below him warping into twisted lines and blurry images like the ink was bleeding down the page.

“Julian?”

“Huh?” He turned to the sound of his own name. The blond’s face was a blank canvas of emotion.

“Can you take these to Agent Morhen’s office?” He asked, tapping the paperwork in front of him. “It’s…”

“I know where it is.”

“Quick as you can, then.”

If Jaskier nodded, or gave any reaction, he wasn’t privy to it. Some force beyond him moved his legs one in front of the other as he found the door and stepped into the corridor.

He didn’t go straight to Vesemir’s office as instructed, instead, he felt the crisp weight of paper in one hand and the cool metal of a door handle in the other as he shut himself in the first room he came across. It was an office, and it was dark and Jaskier didn’t turn the light on. He placed the stack of papers on the edge of the desk and his hand didn’t shake once as he pulled his iphone out of his pocket.

He didn’t feel the phone in his hand, nor did he feel the screen beneath his finger pads as he typed. It was like his entire brain was on pause as he pressed the green icon and _07544734529_ flashed up on the screen. A dial-up noise cut across the numbness in his brain and he blinked.

_‘This number is no longer in service, please check the number and try your call again. This number is no longer in service, please check the number and try your call again. This number is no longer in service, please check the number and try your call again. This number-‘_

Jaskier sank down to his knees as the automated message played again and again, taunting him with his reality. He actually felt his heart tearing in his chest and an indescribable pain like indigestion seized his muscles and he gasped as he clutched at himself.

Was he crying? He didn’t think so. He didn’t _deserve_ to cry. What he deserved was the searing agony in his chest. He’d sent Geralt out there. If he’d just kept his nose out, then Ben Willshore would have gotten away with it and they would never have found out the location of the arms dealers and Geralt would still be alive. This was how Jaskier had chosen to repay him. It didn’t matter how long he’d been clean, how happy his family were to see him or how legal his job was – he was still the useless piece of shit that hurt people that he’d always been, and nothing could change that.

He looked at his hands, as if expecting to see the blood of so many people there, but they were clean. He shoved his shirt sleeve up to his elbow and it was unbruised for the first time in years, but the needle holes were still scored into his flesh. His eyes fluttered at the memory of that sharp prick and how it was always followed by oblivion, when the pain in his chest would mean nothing and he could forget, just for a moment, that he’d lost him.

…

When Geralt saw the barrel of John Devenere’s gun raise to his forehead, he closed his eyes.

Somehow, he knew he was always going to die here. It made sense, at least on a subconscious level, that the Devenere mission would be the one that finished him off.

He’d never left Sudan, not really, he’d died there along with Renfri and the shell of his body had been walking around ever since. He was surprised at just how _ready_ he was, and how few regrets he had, because this simple act would right so many wrongs in the universe.

Geralt had almost been killed enough times in his life that he knew what having your life flashing before your eyes meant, and the things the brain reached out for when it was paralysed with fear. He’d already dealt with the usual suspects. His mother, some foster parents, Vesemir; the last time John had almost killed him, it had been Renfri and it had been Renfri ever since. His eyes eased closed for the last time, shutting out the gun barrel and he saw Jaskier.

It was his brain’s way of giving him one modicum of calm before the inevitable unknown by letting him see those wide, nervous eyes and that shy smile he hadn’t been able to shake, and peace washed over him. He was thankful to Jaskier for being a good, sweet thing in his life when he’d thought misery was his only companion, and he hoped that wherever he was, that he was doing okay, and he thanked a god he didn’t believe in for allowing him to see him one last time.

He heard the shot, the trajectory seemed off but it barely registered until he heard a grunt and a heavy scuffle and then weight hitting the floor.

He opened his eyes slowly. The pain from his face and spiralling out from the stab wound on his shoulder and the slice down his chest made him groggy and his head span but even he could still see John on the floor in front of him, with a man in all black on his back and holding an MI6-issue pistol at his head. The agent had wires attached to his sides that disappeared upwards. Geralt’s neck complained but he followed them with his eyes to see the skylight on the ceiling opened wide and a thick maw of agents pouring through, abseiling down into the torture chamber until it was crawling with bodies.

The door burst open with a groan and Colin sprung inside. His hair was shoved back, his eyes wild and his face a mesh of blood where Geralt had broken his nose. He yelled in shock and fury as two agents crowded him. He pulled his fist back and it connected heavily with the agent’s neck, sending him falling back before he flicked Geralt’s own dagger around and buried it in the leg of another agent, sending his fist up into his jaw and shoving him back. Colin’s combat training allowed him to easily overpower the two agents that had stepped up to him but he had the disadvantage of being outnumbered in a very small space and soon enough, the dagger was clattering to the floor and a hand was on the back of his neck and forcing him down onto his knees on the floor.

“John, fuck…!” He growled in pain and then a startled yell fell from his mouth as the barrel of a gun was pushed against his temple and he _bit_ his lip against the unexpected helplessness.

Geralt blinked in surprise. If he’d had all his faculty, he’d have realised that his backup team had tracked him down and knocked John’s shot off course and saved his life, but he didn’t know any of that, he wasn’t even sure if he was alive or dead, all he could see were bodies and all he could smell was blood and John was lying on the floor in front of him.

Then he couldn’t see him anymore. Hands were on his cheeks and bringing his face up. He winced but the face in front of him was out of focus and he didn’t know if it was friend or foe.

“Jaskier...” He slurred.

“Geralt!” A harsh voice, a voice he recognised, cut across the fog in his brain. “Geralt, stay away, Christ, it’s okay.”

Geralt’s vision cleared like smoke being blown away and he saw Eskel knelt before him. He was wearing a stab vest with a gun strapped to his ribs, his hair was shoved back off his face and he had a fierce look in his eyes.

“The fuck?” Geralt asked hazily. “Esk?”

“Ger, you’re okay.” Eskel’s voice was trembling through his teeth. Something about having the solid comfort of his friend, his brother, in front of him in this foreign and terrifying place grounded Geralt and his coherence hit him around the head like a hammer. His wounds screamed at him and his bones creaked like an old house being knocked in and he _sobbed_.

He tried to look past Eskel and his loud assurances. Colin Devenere was knelt on the floor, a black-gloved hand in his hair keeping his head down. Blood dripped between his knees and he was muttering quietly to himself. There was the sound of scuffling that Geralt couldn’t see. There were raised voices and boots on concrete and Geralt’s heart threatened to jump out of his chest in fret as the sound of a silenced gunshot echoed mutedly around the room. Colin screamed and snarled and thrashed against the man holding him down, sending him back against the wall as his muscles coiled and rippled and he raised to his full height, then hands were around him and dragging his screaming form out of the room. The door shut with a loud bang and Geralt could still hear the inhuman screeching through the walls.

Eskel seemed unperturbed by the events behind him and moved to Geralt’s side to bring a knife to the rope binding his wrist and inadvertently showed Geralt what Colin had seen.

John Devenere’s corpse was on the floor, face down, head turned towards them. The smoke from the bullet wound spiralled and twisted high in the air from the shattered bone of his skull. Blood seeped out across the stone floor until it reached the chair and licked at Geralt’s boots.

Eskel sliced through the ropes and Geralt felt his sore wrists and ankles melt against the wood of the chair. He stood. He had no idea how he stood, but he managed it, any pain he was in right now was somewhere else. He felt Eskel’s hands on him, trying to still him, to ease him down, but he was a man possessed.

After all the commotion before, it felt like everything was deathly silent the moment he stood. The agents, some Geralt knew and some he didn’t, stood back and cleared a path for him as he crossed the room on legs that didn’t belong to him and sunk down into the pool of blood, the crimson liquid squelched under the heavy bone of his kneecaps and solidified him to the floor.

John was facing him, his lifeless eyes wide with shock and they mirrored Geralt’s perfectly. Eskel’s hands were on his shoulders and pain from the stab wound shot through him and a low moan fell from his lips.

“Are you okay?” Eskel muttered in his ear.

“Hurts.” Was all Geralt managed to get out. He was telling the truth, but he was also avoiding the question.

Was he okay? No, he didn’t think he was.

…

None of the contacts in Jaskier’s phone had names, partially it was because it was less incriminating that way but also it was because he knew who each of them were. He recognised the eleven-digit number as soon as he called it and waited with bated breath for his call to be answered.

“ _Shit, man, I haven’t heard from you in a while_.” Came a male voice almost instantly. “ _I thought you’d OD’d or something_.”

“We need to meet.” Jaskier responded sharply. “I need some.”

“ _You got it, man, usual place?_ ”

“Yeah.”

It was barely two hours later when Jaskier was stood in the same alleyway he’d stood in a thousand times, waiting for the same man. He was so desperate that his former anxieties about scoring never even occurred to him. Besides, he knew his dealer and he knew he didn’t want sexual favours from him, he wanted cash. It was a good thing, as well, because right now Jaskier would have sucked whatever was put in front of him to get his fix.

Jaskier passed over a wad of notes and a small baggie was pressed into his free hand. His dealer winked at him before pocketing the cash and walking away. Jaskier waited until he was out of sight and he collapsed back against the wall and unravelled the baggie there and then.

He knew it was reckless to shoot up out in the open, but he didn’t have the energy or the strength to go home. His eyes were drawn out and tired, his vision was cloudy, and it took _effort_ to force his brain to focus on the task at hand. It was his way of hiding from the overwhelming tremors of panic coursing through him by promising himself that once he was numb then everything would be okay.

He barely noticed the tears falling thick and heavy from his eyes as he boiled the heroin off and sucked it up into the needle. He didn’t know what he was crying for, whether it was for losing Geralt or losing himself, he just didn’t have the mental capacity to think anymore.

Geralt was gone and Jaskier had killed him and he prayed he would overdose right here in this alleyway and rid the world of the disease of his existence, maybe he’d get a chance to speak with the deity that would take his soul and barter his life for Geralt’s.

He snapped a rubber band painfully over his bicep, forcing the veins to the surface with a practised slap of his hand before he placed the tip of the needle over a scar already fading there. He was so ready to see the familiar, comforting, dark bruises gracing his skin again; one small act of pain to exchange for a lifetime of suffering.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he blinked. It was the work phone they’d given him earlier and the unfamiliar notification sound must have piqued his attention. He didn’t know why he checked it, force of habit, he supposed. One part of his initiation had been adding him to an encrypted email chat between him and his colleagues, allowing them to converse outside of shift hours for emergency call ins and so forth. The message that flared up on his lock screen was a simple one.

_They extracted Rivia, he’s alive._

Jaskier didn’t read the rest of it, nor did he particularly notice when the unused needle tumbled from his grip and shattered on the ground as he turned in the other direction and _ran_.


	16. blinking against the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m not a stranger, no I am yours. With crippled anger, and tears that still drip sore. – Cut, Plumb

Chapter Sixteen

_blinking against the sun_

Jaskier was able to flash his MI6 I.D badge to get into the hospital and he hurried down a corridor, following the receptionist’s instructions to where Geralt was.

Geralt was in a private room at the end of an empty corridor. Well, all but empty except for Eskel loitering outside. He was dressed in jeans and a faded t shirt, his legs crossed one over the other as he leant back against the wall. He had one hand in his hair and the other around a Styrofoam cup resting against his hipbone. It looked like he was guarding Geralt’s room.

“Eskel.” Jaskier said in surprise as he stopped in front of him. Jaskier’s heart was going a million miles a minute but he still recognised the man he’d watched nearly die to save his family.

Eskel opened his eyes and confusion crossed his features before recognition replaced it. Jaskier’s hair was shorter and he was dressed like an office worker and he barely looked like himself. He looked like Julian.

“Hey.” Eskel said in greeting, sounding tired. “I heard you were in tech support now.”

“Hey.” Jaskier’s voice shook. “I, yeah, I just started.” His eyes darted to the door. “How did you get him out? Everyone said we lost his tracker.”

Eskel nodded slowly.

“The task force used to carry trackers in our boots, it was axed a while ago because it fucks up if they get wet or worn or anything, but the software was still there, and tech were able to remotely get it online. We got to him just in the nick of time.”

“How is he?” Jaskier asked with a frown.

Eskel blew out his cheeks and glanced at the door he was parked next to instinctively.

“He’s okay. He’s got a few injuries. He was tortured before we reached him. But Geralt’s a tough cookie, it’s nothing he hasn’t gone through before.”

Jaskier’s face crumpled and his heart broke anew, a soft noise escaped him but nothing more.

“He’s dead.” Eskel said rather numbly. “John Devenere, I mean. He was shot at the scene for resisting arrest.” Eskel frowned down into his coffee. “It’s over, I think.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jaskier’s voice broke. He could feel his hands trembling and he clasped them, trying to keep himself together as he watched this seasoned agent, this mammoth of a man, wincing in pain at memories that were scorched in his mind forever. Sometimes the calm after the storm was worse than the storm itself.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Eskel muttered.

“There is.” A lump formed in Jaskier’s throat and he sighed. They deserved the truth from him, even if it cost him his job and his freedom. “I was the one who hacked Willshore’s emails. I sent Geralt in there. He’s hurt and he could have died because of me.”

Eskel surprised him by smiling tiredly.

“We know.”

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier blinked.

“We know you did.” He clarified, pushing himself away from the wall and popping his head from side to side. His slightly too-long hair curled at his neck. “Why do you think Vesemir hired you? I think he’s scared of you, to tell you the truth, better to have you on our side than theirs.”

Jaskier’s head span with the admission but the longer he considered it, the more obvious and plausible it seemed.

“Oh.” He looked down at the white floor. If he was in any other situation, he’d probably have been relieved, but right now it felt like his heart was on a tightrope and any pressure, any little thing, would make it tumble off.

“It’s still my fault.” He admitted dejectedly.

“Willshore and Colin Devenere are locked up, the rest of the crew are in custody and Geralt was pulled out safely. That’s not murder, Jask, that’s the job. Successfully done, actually. You’ve saved his life.”

“How do you figure that?” Jaskier frowned.

“He’d have followed them to the ends of the earth for her. He’s at peace now. I never understood why he was so cut up about it but now one of my old cases has rocked up again after I thought it was dead, and trust me, you can’t sleep with that kind of unfinished business.”

Jaskier had barely heard anything past ‘her’. ‘Her’ must have been the partner Geralt never mentioned and something twinged in Jaskier’s chest at hearing that everything Geralt had done had been for her.

“He never mentioned his partner.” Jaskier told the floor. “He must have really loved her.”

“He did. He does.” Eskel looked over Jaskier, holding his arms tightly around himself as he looked dejectedly at the floor. He’d come all the way here to see Geralt and he was still trying to hide from his own feelings. Eskel wanted to bash their heads together and tell the pair of them that they’d fallen in love with each other, and that it was okay.

“I’ll tell you something,” Eskel said against his better judgement, envisioning Geralt kicking his ass for it the second he could. The thought warmed his heart and put a smile on his face. “When I found him, he was barely conscious, and all he said was your name.”

Jaskier didn’t move for the longest time and Eskel’s smile dropped, he was momentarily worried he’d read the situation completely wrong and said the worst possible thing.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jaskier finally asked, his glassy eyes looking up. Eskel relaxed and shrugged.

“You saved my life once, as well.” He reminded him.

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed as he remembered Eskel burying his mother’s antique corkscrew into the shoulder of that syndicate member. Eskel didn’t owe him shit and the fact that he _felt_ like he did made Jaskier uncomfortably hot.

“He’s awake, if you want to see him.” Eskel nodded at the door.

Jaskier’s reply got caught in his throat and he shared what he hoped was a thankful look with Eskel as he walked forward and turned the door handle with a trembling hand.

He closed the door quietly as he entered the hospital room. It wasn’t very big. It had one hospital bed with a comfortable looking reclining chair beside it. Jaskier hovered by the door, partially concealed by the corner of what he presumed was an en-suite bathroom, when he saw him.

Geralt was propped up in the hospital bed, he had a blue gown stretched taut over his frame while a white sheet covered his bottom half. His hair was down and falling limp and unwashed over his shoulders. His left hand was hooked up to a heart monitor while a catheter connected him to an I.V of liquid morphine, but it was his face that broke Jaskier’s heart.

He had a black eye, dark and yellow bruising swelling under his eye sockets, scabbing cuts over his nose and cheeks and chin and, Jaskier noticed, a thick bandage on his right shoulder.

Jaskier’s eyes were already welling up at the sight of him, but it was only when Geralt turned his head and saw him, and his mouth fell open into a shallow ‘ _oh’_ , that Jaskier’s tears fell unaided from his eyes.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked softly, his surprisingly unblemished forehead crinkling in surprise. “You came?”

“I had to.” Jaskier said, wiping his tears away on the back of his hand but it did nothing to stop them. His heart was shattering into a million pieces at the state that Geralt was in, but he couldn’t deny that they were also tears of relief. Geralt was alive and he was safe, and he would heal. For the first time since he’d heard he was M.I.A, he felt the ball of tension unravel in his gut and he breathed out.

They stayed in stalemate for a long time, with Jaskier stood by the door and Geralt in bed, simply staring at each other as every bit the vulnerable, exposed beasts they’d been when they’d met. It was as if everything else fell away and they weakened around each other.

A part of Geralt couldn’t quite believe that he was seeing the man stood across from him and he momentarily wondered if they’d given him too many painkillers. When he’d thought about him, his sweet escape from the barrel of John Devenere’s gun, he never imagined he’d actually get to see him again. His heart felt like a raw, exposed nerve in his chest, thumping erratically against his ribcage as if trying to escape and cross the room and go home; maybe it was successful because something inside Geralt _snapped_.

“Can you just, _please_ , can you just come here?”

Jaskier lost his faculty. It was like the taut string that had been holding him to the door had just been cut and catapulted him across the room and his arms were around Geralt’s broad shoulders in seconds. The agent let out a surprised ‘oof’ and fell back against the headboard. Jaskier fell with him, lifting his legs to right himself, feeling the soft squish of the mattress beneath his knees before he froze. Geralt’s hand was on his back, easing him up, easing him over, and Jaskier let out a soft noise as his legs slotted on either side of Geralt’s waist and he settled in his lap. He supposed he should have been mortified, but he was too busy trying not to cry at the _familiar_ feel of the man beneath him and all the longing that came with it.

If Geralt was surprised by the weight of Jaskier in his lap, it didn’t show on his face, nor did it stop his hands from inching down his back and resting on his hips. Geralt looked down on them, watching the way his large, scarred hands circled Jaskier’s waist. He‘d held him before like this, and was pleasantly surprised to find that he felt meatier than before, like he was eating properly and without having to be bribed to do so, and yet Geralt could still feel those sharp, familiar hip bones somewhere under his hands.

It occurred to him that this was wrong, and he shouldn’t have been doing it, but the feel of Jaskier’s soft flesh in his arms, after everything, was a balm and Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care about the protestations the logical part of his brain was giving him and soon they drained away, much like his sanity, and he lost himself in those wide, nervous eyes he’d missed so much. Jaskier actually blushed and Geralt squeezed him possessively in response.

The next thing he knew, their chests were smacked together with a solid _whump_ and Jaskier’s arms were wrapped tightly around his throat. Geralt made a noise, his hands inching up Jaskier’s back and gripping his shoulder blades and it was like the morphine in his catheter had been turned up.

Geralt screwed his eyes shut, trying to comprehend the weight against him and the scent in his nose he was only just realising was familiar. He felt like someone had turned the gravity off and clinging to Jaskier was the only thing that stopped him from hurtling off into space.

“I thought I’d lost you.” The warm whisper burst against Geralt’s neck and his hairs stood on end. Jaskier pulled back until his lips were resting, almost wet, against Geralt’s bruised cheek. “Sorry. M’sorry.”

Geralt ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, it was shorter now, and just held him there for a long time to make up for the words he couldn’t say.

When they finally parted, Jaskier’s hands slid from around Geralt’s neck and down the planes of his clothed chest. Geralt’s chest rumbled under his hands before Jaskier’s palms settled over his stomach and Jaskier stared at them in embarrassment.

Geralt’s right hand trailed up Jaskier’s neck freely. His scarred knuckles stood out against Jaskier’s milky flesh and his own gentle touch surprised him, before he eased his fingers under his chin and lifted Jaskier’s face upwards. It was a barely-there touch, but Jaskier followed it like a Psiren call, and whatever embarrassment that had been there before was gone when his eyes met Geralt’s.

“I thought about you often.” Geralt admitted absentmindedly. “About what you were doing,” he smiled softly, “if you ever thought of me. When you left that memory stick, I hoped I’d see you again, but maybe under better circumstances.”

“I should have found you sooner.” Jaskier said. He held his hands still against Geralt’s stomach but Geralt could feel them there as if the touch were somehow alive. “Even my therapist told me to, but I thought you wouldn’t, you know, that you didn’t…”

Geralt responded by sweeping his hands up Jaskier’s back in an _entirely_ inappropriate way. He didn’t want to talk about the past because that was where the pain was, where all the mistakes were, he wanted to keep them here and now where it was warm and safe.

“Therapist?” He asked instead.

“Yeah.” Jaskier admitted shyly. “I’ve been seeing someone, trying to stay clean.”

“Really?” Geralt murmured. The honest truth was that Jaskier looked too healthy, too full of life, for anyone to suspect that he was still using, and the thought warmed Geralt’s heart.

“Hmm. I didn’t want to leave behind strangers who barely remembered me.”

Geralt’s hands squeezed Jaskier’s ribcage incrementally at hearing his own words repeated back to him, especially after all this time.

All of these intimate touches and quiet, whispered confessions was just them dancing around each other. It was dangerous but in a safe way, it didn’t have to go too far or past the point of no return, but now Geralt knew he was ready. He was ready to let go and fall off of the world with Jaskier and into that unknown.

“I’m not a stranger.” He said. “I’m yours.”

Jaskier hesitated, Geralt didn’t. He fisted Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier cried out as Geralt swallowed his moan. Their lips slid together and Jaskier whimpered as his fingernails scraped along Geralt’s neck. The heart monitor began to beep alarmingly beside them and Jaskier laughed into Geralt’s mouth as he curled strands of white hair around his fingers. Geralt growled and ripped the wire from his finger before grasping Jaskier again, holding him firm in his lap as he reclaimed his mouth. Jaskier gasped into the kiss, it was warm and insistent and so hard that it was almost painful but only in the best way. His mouth fell open in dumb shock and ecstasy and he nearly shrieked when he felt the hot pressure of Geralt’s tongue easing its way between his parted lips. Something shot up Jaskier’s spine and the rest of his body turned to mush under the sensation. He tentatively pressed forward, meeting Geralt’s warm tongue with his own and he was rewarded with a low moan from the agent. He relaxed his grip on Geralt’s shoulders, comforted that maybe he wasn’t completely fucking up his first real kiss, but luckily Geralt seemed content to control the parting of their lips and the strong brush of their tongues and Jaskier sunk into the rhythm like he’d done it a thousand times. The cage of Geralt’s arms around him was so secure that Jaskier felt protected from everything in the world except the sweet assault on his mouth, which was ironic as that would be the thing that would end him fastest.

Jaskier’s hands were going numb, his head was light and dizzy, but he didn’t stop kissing Geralt. He didn’t think he knew how.

…

Jaskier held the door to Geralt’s apartment open to allow Geralt to walk in first, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder as he allowed himself a quick peak at the space. The apartment was entirely open-planned and Jaskier could see the kitchen and the bed from here. The only thing that separated the rooms at all were wall to floor panels of frosted glass that didn’t quite meet in the middle, the resultant spaces acting as makeshift doorways. The sofas were stiff, black leather and every piece of furniture was either black glass or glittering black marble while the floor was a glistening white. It was strong, stark and maybe a little cold. Jaskier smiled, it reminded him of Geralt.

Geralt rolled his eyes as Jaskier held the door open for him but he didn’t say anything as he ignored his instincts and walked inside first.

He felt fine. He was still sore, but it was nothing that he couldn’t handle. The Doctor’s had insisted on keeping him in that hospital bed for an entire week and Geralt had resigned himself to the excess with very little complaining. He had, however, vehemently refused when they’d tried to strap his arm up to help his stab wound. The last thing he needed right now was to feel _bound_. He had painkillers and his cuts and bruises would heal. He’d seen Colin Devenere do a lot worse to far more innocent people and Geralt counted himself lucky.

His one wish, if it could be called that, was that somewhere in the mixture of liquid morphine and tramadol they’d given him, there was some sort of drug that could erase the memory of Colin’s bloody spit dribbling lewdly into his mouth. He felt _marked_ by it and he couldn’t shake it off. He grunted as he eyed a bottle of whisky on the countertop; that would do just fine.

He’d only just grasped the neck of the bottle when he heard a reproachful: “Geralt.”

Geralt turned to see Jaskier looking at him from the living room and he smiled dolefully. Jaskier had insisted on keeping an eye on him after he’d been discharged, just in case, and while Geralt had clucked he had most definitely not argued. He wasn’t going to give up an opportunity to have Jaskier close by.

Jaskier was taken aback by Geralt’s soft smile and he blushed, reaching a hand up and scratching his neck. There were parts of Jaskier that Geralt barely recognised, even now he stood with his hair combed, wearing a dress shirt pulled up to his sleeves and an MI6 badge around his neck, but Geralt was glad, grateful even, that his fidgeting hands had never been due to the drugs.

“What are you looking at?” Jaskier asked shyly.

“You.” Geralt said with a smirk, his hand falling away from the bottle as he crossed the room to the vice that had fucked him up more than anything else.

He eased his hands around Jaskier’s upper arms and Jaskier’s smile turned bashful as he looked at the floor.

“You’re a shit.” Jaskier murmured.

“And you’re perfect.”

Jaskier pushed against his chest and his cheeks burned bright.

“Stop distracting me, I’m supposed to be looking after you. You need rest, wolf.”

Geralt’s heart jumped at the affectionate nickname and he pulled back a bit, his fingers under Jaskier’s chin to return his face to his and see those pretty blue eyes.

“I quite agree.” He rumbled. “I think we should go to bed.”

“You should go to bed.” Jaskier countered almost expertly, his quick wit only betrayed by the rose blush on his cheeks that wasn’t lessening. “You need to rest.”

Geralt held his hand out and Jaskier stared at it for a moment before he took it. Geralt lead them back through the apartment blindly, up a step and through the frosted glass and into the master bedroom. It had a king-size bed with black sheets, a metal bedside cabinet on one side and a closet on the other. No trinkets, no photographs – just order and usefulness. Jaskier glanced around and caught their reflections in the frosted glass panel that partially separated the bedroom from the rest of the apartment and the size difference between them was immense.

“Do you want some help with your shirt?” Jaskier nodded at Geralt’s buttons.

Geralt looked down on himself instinctively before he nodded his ascent and sat on the edge of the bed. He was still sore, but it was nothing in comparison to the boiling need in his stomach as the younger man bent down in front of him, his fingers teasing Geralt’s collar.

Geralt’s hand was in Jaskier’s hair and pulling him in for a bruising kiss. Jaskier yelped into Geralt’s mouth in shock and his fingers curled in Geralt’s collar before he tugged hard. Geralt groaned before he was rolling Jaskier onto his back on the bed and coming to a stop on top of him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier breathed out. “You’re hurt, we can’t-”

Their eyes barely met for a second before they were kissing again, their chests pressed together and Jaskier forgot his protestations as his arms wound around Geralt’s neck. Their tongues met, and Geralt held his body weight on his better arm so not to crush the boy while his other hand swept along Jaskier’s body, feeling the meat of his shoulder, caging his torso before his fingers were dancing around Jaskier’s thighs and then the kiss deepened from playful to painfully serious. Geralt’s hand dipped low between Jaskier’s legs and the flat of his palm pressed against his inner thigh. It was hot and strong with muscle and fat that quivered under his touch and Geralt couldn’t miss the hitched whine that fell, muffled, from him.

“Is this okay?” He whispered wetly against Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier’s hands were still in Geralt’s hair, his chest rising and falling rapidly against Geralt’s own and his face was flush with blood.

“I…” Jaskier bit his lip shyly and Geralt’s face darkened with desire. He had no idea what inner strength had stopped him from slamming Jaskier against the wall in the safe house because it sure as shit wasn’t with him now. “It’s fine.”

“What is it?” Geralt prompted, rearing back a little to give him some space.

Jaskier’s hand moved down Geralt’s back and cupped his shoulder blade and he swallowed, feeling _held_ for the first time in a long time.

“I’m a virgin.” Jaskier said.

Geralt’s expression fell. It was a shock to hear initially but then it made perfect sense. Jaskier wasn’t exactly what Geralt would call a people person and he couldn’t imagine him trusting anyone to give them the most vulnerable part of himself. But he trusted Geralt, didn’t he? He’d said it himself.

“We can stop.” Geralt assured him softly.

“I don’t want to stop.” Jaskier was smiling and Geralt couldn’t believe how relaxed he was. “I just wanted to warn you because I’ll probably be shit.”

Geralt laughed and collapsed, _melted_ , on top of Jaskier. He buried his head in his neck until he felt Jaskier’s leg come to rest over his hip. Neither of them knew who initiated it, but they were suddenly rolled onto their side and facing each other.

Geralt allowed his hand to trail down the dip of Jaskier’s back before settling over his ass and squeezing lightly. It was every bit as soft and supple as Geralt had imagined it would be. Jaskier took a sharp intake of breath at being manhandled in such a way and a wave of possessiveness washed over Geralt. He was going to Jaskier’s first, his _only_.

“Have you ever had anything inside you before?”

Jaskier blushed again and Geralt was learning to love it, almost as much as he loved those eyes.

“Yeah.” Jaskier admitted quietly, his voice cracking around the word. “I’ve got toys, I really like it.”

“Fuck, Jaskier.” Geralt growled, his fingers digging into Jaskier’s thighs and making him jolt. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jaskier felt emboldened by Geralt’s reaction and he allowed himself a small, shy smirk as he tentatively pressed his fingers to Geralt’s collarbone.

“Sometimes I did it thinking about you.”

Jaskier felt something close to _regret_ as Geralt stared at him predatorially and it almost looked like he wanted to _hurt_ him. Jaskier knew from first-hand experience that such a look from Geralt Rivia was no small thing. He’d imagined going to bed with Geralt many times when they’d been apart, but his mind had never quite captured the full force of him looking at him like he was a piece of meat, like he wanted to _feast_ on him.

But whatever fire had appeared on Geralt’s face didn’t translate into his actions, like it boiled beneath the surface of the agent’s hot skin as he eased Jaskier onto his back and knelt between his legs. He leant over him, their chests not touching as he pressed the softest kiss to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier barely felt it, only the _heat_ of it, then Geralt’s mouth was moving against his own, soft and warm and _slow_ and Jaskier groaned as his hands twitched limply by his sides. He couldn’t move them, he couldn’t think of anything beyond the slow, soft press of Geralt’s mouth on his.

He felt the slick, wet heat of Geralt’s tongue licking along the seam of his lips and he cried out softly. Geralt took advantage of the way his mouth fell open and sank his tongue, patient and wet, between Jaskier’s swelling lips and Jaskier whimpered around it as his hands flew to Geralt’s back, as if trying abortively to push him away.

Geralt hummed into his mouth, using Jaskier’s distraction again to slip his hands into the small space between their chests. His fingers blindly undid each of Jaskier’s shirt buttons until the fabric slipped down his ribs. He broke the kiss then and looked down at Jaskier’s flushed cheeks, his wet lips and his wide eyes before sitting up between his legs and pressing his broad hands over the flat plane of Jaskier’s stomach. He enjoyed the way it rose and fell under his palms and how the soft hair and muscle danced against the nerve endings in his calloused hands.

Jaskier tried to sit up too but Geralt swept his hands up to his shoulders and kept him pinned to the bed. Jaskier swallowed as he stared up at him. No words were exchanged, but when Geralt moved his hands back down Jaskier’s body, Jaskier didn’t move again.

Geralt stared down at him for a long moment, searching for comfort, for consent, with his eyes, and Jaskier looked back, those nervous orbs dancing with arousal and fret and _trust_ and Geralt smiled at him before he was lowering his whole body, latching his mouth on Jaskier’s neck and listening to him whine, high-pitched and shocked, as he shoved his head back into the pillow.

Geralt pressed open-mouthed kisses along his sensitive flesh and when he pulled back, Jaskier’s neck was shining and red and Geralt growled, enjoying seeing a mark that he’d put on Jaskier’s body. One that was inflicted from pleasure and not from pain. As if on cue, his hand inched up Jaskier’s arm. His shirt sleeve was pulled up to his elbow and Geralt could see the scars dotted there. There were so many of them, tiny angry freckles that had been inflicted when Jaskier just couldn’t cope with the world. The thought of his sweet, innocent boy sobbing alone and turning to anything just to stop the pain, just to be able to breathe in, attacked something in Geralt’s throat and he seized with it.

“Hey,” he felt fingers in his hair, and he flicked his eyes to Jaskier’s, they were lax and calm and happy. “Where’s your head at, wolf?”

“You.” Geralt admitted honestly for the second time that evening. He lifted Jaskier’s arm and kissed along his clothed bicep before he was pressing soft kisses to each and every score mark he could see on his skin.

“ _Oh_.” Jaskier said quietly.

“How are you doing, beautiful?”

“Fine.” Jaskier flushed at the term of endearment. “It’s a lot.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No.”

Geralt smiled as he held Jaskier’s gaze and lowered himself back down to his chest, flicking his tongue over Jaskier’s nipple.

“Fuck.” Jaskier groaned, tugging Geralt’s hair and causing lightning strikes of hot pain to shoot down Geralt’s neck and circle his stab wound.

“A little sensitive?” He smirked.

“Apparently.” Jaskier replied through gritted teeth.

“What, you’ve never had anyone play with your nipples before?”

“ _Virgin_.” Jaskier echoed stiffly.

Geralt flicked his tongue over the sensitive and rapidly hardening nub again, just to listen to Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath and feel those painful sparks as Jaskier yanked his hair.

“Geralt.” It almost sounded like a warning.

Geralt continued to lathe Jaskier’s nipple with his tongue, his overwhelmed gasps and full-body twitches going straight to Geralt’s cock, and just when Geralt was certain that Jaskier was going to rip his hair out by the roots did he bring his hand up and flick Jaskier’s neglected nipple in time with the one trembling against his tongue.

“Shit, fuck, fuck!” Jaskier shrieked. His back arched off the bed and Geralt smiled as he felt, for the first time, Jaskier’s stiff cock against his thigh.

“I think you’re enjoying it.” Geralt teased, allowing the tip of his finger to dance over Jaskier’s nipple as his tongue grazed the other.

“Geralt,” Jaskier panted, “it’s too much, _please_.”

Geralt moved away and Jaskier’s entire body melted in relief, but it did nothing to flag the tent in his trousers.

“You’re okay.” Geralt murmured fondly, running his hand through Jaskier’s hair because he could. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.” Jaskier smiled and his fingers enclosed around the wrist of Geralt’s hand in his hair, his thumb stroking over the thin bones there. “I know.”

Geralt lost himself in the simple stroke of Jaskier’s thumb. He had no idea that Jaskier could be so affectionate, but then he’d also had no idea how touch-starved he’d been that such a simple thing could take him apart so easily.

He kissed Jaskier gently before he sat back, his fingers trailing along Jaskier’s stomach before they dipped under his waistband.

“Is this okay?”

“I trust you.” Jaskier nodded.

Geralt unzipped Jaskier’s trousers and pulled them down his legs along with his underwear. He himself rose and stood beside the bed so he could disrobe him fully while Jaskier peeled his open shirt from his frame and folded it neatly beside him. Geralt let his gaze linger on the clothes he’d bundled to the floor for a moment, as if in anticipation, before he turned back to Jaskier, naked, and waiting for him.

Jaskier’s legs were long and dark with fuzz and his hips were sharp and narrow, his shoulders were broad and masculine, and his chest was a thatch of dark hair. Geralt felt his balls tightening against his body at the sight. Then he allowed himself to look at Jaskier’s cock. it was long and flushed pink with blood, jutting out from a patch of dark pubic hair that, Geralt realised, trailed down from the same hair on his chest. It was an obscenely hot realisation and Geralt had to work to keep his breathing steady for a moment.

He didn’t take his eyes off of him as he slowly began to undress himself. He watched as Jaskier’s eyes followed each button that was undone, and Geralt let his shirt slip to the floor. His chest was bruised and scabbing, his shoulder covered with thick gauze from the wound caused by his own dagger and he tried not to be embarrassed.

Jaskier’s eyes continued to follow Geralt’s hands as they went to his belt and he removed his trousers and slipped his underwear down the thick trunks of his thighs. He saw Jaskier’s eyes zero in on his cock and he blushed, looking down on it himself. It stood thick and erect as always from a groomed patch of hair as light as the hair on his head. Geralt was so turned on that his foreskin had fully retracted and he ran a hand over himself instinctively. It felt good and his gaze snapped up again when he heard Jaskier gasp. Jaskier’s hand was between his own legs and gripping his dick as he stared at Geralt’s.

They both looked at each other in equal states of shy arousal before Geralt remembered himself and sunk down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

“Can I?” He reached for Jaskier.

Jaskier nodded mutely and let himself go and Geralt wrapped his fingers around Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier gasped as he twitched and burned in Geralt’s grip.

Jaskier reached out, mirroring the agent’s movements, except that his own hand paused before it reached its destination. His fingertips trailed over Geralt’s thigh but didn’t dare to go any further.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and pressed it against his own cock and Jaskier barely reacted outwardly as he wrapped his fingers slowly around Geralt’s thick length. Sparks of near pleasure threatened Geralt as he felt a hand on him that wasn’t his own for the first time in a long time. Jaskier just held him, staring at the cock in his hand for the longest time with an unreadable, almost calculating, expression before he slowly stroked all the way to the tip. Geralt’s thighs shook.

“You okay?” Jaskier asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Geralt’s voice was light but his thighs were still quivering. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Since Sudan?”

Geralt’s smile was pained.

“Can we not talk about that? Not…not yet. I just want to be here with you.”

Jaskier responded by leaning forward and kissing him softly. He squeezed his dick before he released it and settled back against the bed.

“So, what happens now?” Jaskier asked. “You just shove it in me?”

Geralt laughed at the crassness and the tension in the room snapped like a dry twig before melting away.

“If I were an asshole.” Geralt responded. “I was sort of thinking we could do something else first.” He smirked. “Let me show your little virgin ass something.”

Jaskier blushed deeply from a combination of Geralt’s filthy words and the hand still wrapped around his cock. Geralt wasn’t stroking him, exactly, but he was _moving,_ and it sent little jolts of pleasure through him. Geralt’s hand was large but it was also rough from years of fighting and the textures against Jaskier’s sensitive flesh were almost too much to bear. It was so much, and it was so good and nothing like the anxiety-fuelled nightmares he’d had of other people’s hands touching him. But this wasn’t other people, this was _Geralt_. He’d already seen the worst parts of him, and he hadn’t run away yet. He wasn’t a stranger, he was _his_.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Lie on your front.” Geralt instructed quietly. “Show me your ass.”

Jaskier’s heart jumped but he turned and lay down on his front as instructed, burying his head in the pillow to distract himself from the fact that he was baring himself to Geralt. Part of him was worried that Geralt was going to think his hole was too loose and worn out from all the times he’d fucked himself over the years. He wasn’t the supple young virgin Geralt was expecting. He had mileage in every way. The thought of Geralt rejecting him now, after everything – he clutched the pillow tighter.

Geralt’s breath hitched as his hand hovered over Jaskier’s soft-looking backside. He felt like a thief or a lechery old man taking advantage of someone so young and so perfect.

Ever so slowly, he let his hand squeeze Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier jolted and Geralt groaned at the squish of flesh in his fist.

Pre-come slicked Geralt’s cockhead as he kneaded Jaskier’s ass and the thought of sinking into his tight little heat was making Geralt delirious. He caught himself and stilled his hand as he exercised his patience. This wasn’t about him, nor were they anywhere near that just yet.

“Let me know if it’s too much.” Geralt murmured, shifting back until he was lying on his stomach between Jaskier’s legs as comfortably as he could with the cuts on his chest.

Tentatively, he prized Jaskier’s cheeks apart like a ripe peach and revealed the darker skin of his hole and the smattering of hair that circled his pucker. Geralt couldn’t stop the shuddering growl that escaped him, he didn’t think he’d ever been more turned on in his life.

Geralt ran his tongue over Jaskier’s hole and Jaskier bucked as a drawn-out moan fell from his lips. Geralt grinned and did it again, circling the pink, textured rim of flesh and stimulating the nerve endings there until Jaskier’s thighs were shaking.

“ _Fuck_.” He moaned into the pillow.

“That feel good?”

“ _Yes_.”

Geralt hummed as he buried his face in Jaskier’s ass and Jaskier moaned as Geralt lapped at the sensitive ring of muscle with sure, precise licks. He could feel the muscle loosening and parting under his tongue, and it took effort not to bite down and make Jaskier cry out but instead he reared back a little, holding Jaskier open with his hands before he _spat_ into the pink crevice. He followed the dollop of spittle with his tongue and eased it inside of him as Jaskier throbbed and trembled and groaned.

The noises coming from Jaskier were _obscene_ and sadly muffled by the pillow he was burying his head in. Geralt would have happily torn it from him to hear his mewls but he was too busy with his tongue jammed so far up Jaskier’s ass that could practically taste his guts. Jaskier tasted like the sweetest little morsel Geralt had ever gotten his hands on. His soft licks inside him soon turned stronger until his tongue was _fucking_ him for his own pleasure as much as Jaskier’s. He kissed Jaskier’s hole as he worked him open, sucking the vulnerable flesh desperately to taste him as much as possible while he could.

“Oh, fuck.” Jaskier slurred as his thighs twitched. His hole was beginning to almost _violently_ quiver around Geralt’s tongue as if trying to expel the intrusion or reject the foreign sensation. It was an _assault_ of pleasure and he could hardly stand it but Geralt’s grip on his thighs was firm and all Jaskier could do was wriggle and buck helplessly as Geralt took exactly what he wanted from him. The sheets against his groin were the only reprieve afforded to him as the rough fabric soothed his aching cock with each rut of his hips.

When Geralt finally pulled his tongue free, he lathed it around Jaskier’s spit-slicked hole and Jaskier sobbed somewhere above him. Geralt laughed as he licked his lips and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand while Jaskier’s whole body trembled. He ran a hand up the back of Jaskier’s thigh soothingly.

“You okay up there, baby?” He asked quietly.

Jaskier’s response was nothing more than a noise in the pillow and Geralt pushed himself up onto his elbows and then his knees and tapped the backs of Jaskier’s thighs. It took a moment for Jaskier to understand before he rolled over onto his back. His eyes were hazy and hooded, and his nipples were the stiff peaks Geralt had left them as.

“Rimming porn always looks so boring.” He said.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him and Jaskier laughed.

“Sorry, did I ruin the mood?”

Geralt shook his head before he leant down and kissed him.

Jaskier made a shocked noise into his mouth, not expecting to taste himself on Geralt’s lips. It was erotic and filthy simultaneously.

Jaskier’s hand gripped Geralt’s jaw and he held him close as Geralt slotted his thick thigh between Jaskier’s legs, his hand following and fondling his balls.

“There’s lube, in the drawer.” Geralt whispered against Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier turned his head as he reached for the beside cabinet and gulped as Geralt’s broad tongue found his neck. His shaking hand enclosed around the lube bottle as Geralt reclaimed his mouth, his hand still playing between Jaskier’s legs and Jaskier groaned at the fullness of it. Geralt was everywhere, in his mouth, against his body, between his legs, and he could still feel his slick cooling in his hole.

“Geralt.” Jaskier moaned, it was all he could think to say.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Geralt whispered gruffly against his cheek. “I’ve always got you.”

Jaskier ground against Geralt’s thigh as wanton moans fell from his lips. He mouthed at Geralt’s neck and he didn’t know if it felt good or if he were just comforting himself, all he could feel was the heat pooling in his groin as he rubbed his cock against the unyielding muscle of Geralt’s thigh. He was so tense and close already that he knew it wouldn’t be long.

Geralt’s hands were on his hips, stilling his movements embarrassingly easily and Jaskier groaned, almost frustratedly, into Geralt’s neck.

“Hey, slow down.” Geralt murmured against him. “It’s not a race.”

“M’sorry.” Jaskier’s hands rested on Geralt’s shoulder, just above his bandage. “Was I hurting you?”

“No.” Geralt said honestly, his hand cupping Jaskier’s chin. “I just want you to come when I’m inside you.”

Jaskier flushed, his heart rate skyrocketing and he pressed the lube into Geralt’s hands with shaking fingers.

Geralt stayed with his chest pressed against Jaskier’s, leaving soft kisses against his skin as he trailed his slick fingers between Jaskier’s legs.

Jaskier gasped mutely as he felt a blunt, slippery finger probing at his wet hole. He’d fingered himself enough times to know it wasn’t going to hurt, but he was frightened.

“Everything okay?” Geralt asked.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jaskier nodded.

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he sunk his finger inside Jaskier and Jaskier groaned obscenely.

“Fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier grasped Geralt’s hair and twisted the light strands between his fingers. “ _Fuck_.”

“You have done this before.” Geralt mused.

“Mhmm.” Jaskier bit his lip, his expression pinched. “Your fingers are big.”

Geralt laughed but it was a low sound as he sunk his finger in down to the knuckle. Jaskier felt hot and slick around him.

“Feel good?” Geralt grunted, pumping his finger shallowly in and out of his hole.

“Yeah.” The word melted from Jaskier’s mouth. “S’different.”

Geralt dragged Jaskier by the neck and kissed him hard as he flexed his hand inside him, orchestrating the groans up and out of Jaskier’s mouth only so he could swallow them down.

He sunk a second finger inside and immediately felt Jaskier’s muscles tighten around him. He abandoned stretching him for a moment in favour of massaging Jaskier’s prostate with the pads of his fingers in an attempt to relax him as he pressed soft, delicate kisses to the hollow of his throat.

“Guh.” Jaskier crumpled, mouthing wetly at Geralt’s neck in tandem.

Geralt shuddered as the pleasure tingled in his neck. He carried on his slow, precise fingering, feeling the squish of Jaskier’s prostate as he stimulated it. It wasn’t long before his asshole was loosening around his thick fingers in preparation for the cock he so desperately needed up there. Geralt’s cock strained hard and neglected against his thigh and he couldn’t resist fisting it lazily as Jaskier came apart beneath him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was hurried as his hips bucked, “harder, please.”

Geralt growled and snapped his fingers up inside Jaskier without warning, meeting the soft resistance of squishy flesh and Jaskier yelped as his cock bobbed excitedly against his pelvis and he ground his ass down to meet Geralt’s hand.

“Fuck, yes. Oh my god.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt muttered, picking up the pace until he was fingering him roughly. Jaskier’s legs fell open for him as his hole sucked Geralt’s fingers deep and he groaned.

“You’re so ready to be fucked.” Geralt said without thinking, but Jaskier responded by nodding rigorously.

“Yes, god, please.” He whined. “I need it, please. I’ve needed it for so long.”

The implication of Jaskier’s words sat heavy in Geralt’s heart and he pulled his fingers free with a _squelch_ that made Jaskier shudder. Geralt kissed him once, long and hard and reassuring, before he was rearing back onto his knees. He immediately regretted his hasty movement as his gift from Colin complained at him, but he hid the discomfort from Jaskier as he leant over to the cabinet and came back with a condom.

Jaskier’s eyes followed it.

It was such an innocuous little thing, but it was filled with such implication.

Geralt wasn’t in the mood to be coy, not with Jaskier stretched weak and wanting before him. He wasted no time ripping the foil packet open and rolling the prophylactic over his cock and slicking it liberally with the lube abandoned on the bed.

Jaskier’s eyes were glued to his hand, his wide orbs a combination of fear and lust, and Geralt’s hand faltered.

“Come here.” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice. He held his body weight on his arms as his chest rubbed against the soft hair and hard lines of Jaskier’s own. Their kisses were soft and sensual and Jaskier’s hands crawled up Geralt’s back and settled in the dents of his shoulder blades as Geralt’s crown pressed against his lax hole. The tendons in Jaskier’s neck were taut as Geralt sunk inside him. His cock was _hot_ and heavy and throbbing. It was nothing like a toy, it moved and pulsed with warm blood and nerve endings and Jaskier would _never_ have been able to prepare himself for it.

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt buried his head in Jaskier’s neck as he filled him slowly. The hot, tight heat of Jaskier’s body squeezed his aching cock and Geralt couldn’t help the grunt that escaped him. Jaskier’s knees knocked against Geralt’s hips and his fingers gripped Geralt’s shoulder blades hard. It felt like everything in their lives had been leading up to this moment of pure connection, of two lost souls finding each other, two half-people becoming whole.

“Geralt.” Jaskier whimpered softly as he was stretched wide around him, so full of cock he could barely think. “I…you need to know so many things.”

“Shh.” Geralt murmured, framing Jaskier’s face with his hands. “Just be here with me, us, while we can.”

Jaskier sobbed and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s unbruised cheekbone as Geralt shifted inside him and the pleasure scorched through Jaskier’s body as if it were burning all the pain away in its wake.

Jaskier felt like this wasn’t allowed, somehow, it was a fantasy. Some people in the world got what they wanted, and some didn’t. Jaskier had never been fortunate enough to consider himself one of the former.

“Geralt, please…” He was begging for things that Geralt couldn’t give, and if he understood or not, he would never know. The agent responded by raising himself up, spreading Jaskier’s legs wide around his thighs and thrusting forward into him. Jaskier cried out and gripped Geralt’s shoulder blades harder than before as Geralt pulled out only to slide back inside the pathway he’d made for himself in Jaskier’s body. The movement, the pressure, sent shockwaves through him. Geralt’s cock was rock solid and boiling but with just that little bit of give and the soft flesh of his crown kissed Jaskier’s vulnerable prostate and Jaskier shivered beneath him. The feeling was intense, to be so full, to experience a pleasure so overwhelming as Geralt’s cock sunk into his waiting heat _again_ and Jaskier almost asked him to stop so he could try and get his head around it. But then his lips were latched around Jaskier’s throat, his hips finding a relaxed and easing rhythm and the pleasure coursing through Jaskier’s body mellowed to something warm and continuous and natural and Jaskier felt alive, he felt _fucked_ , and a low growl escaped him as he tipped his head back and let his wet eyes slide shut and he _felt_ everything.

Geralt smiled into Jaskier’s neck as he felt him relax beneath him and, encouraged, he pinned his hips to the bed as he rolled his own a little bit harder and groaned at the wet heat sucking him inside. He couldn’t help chasing it, fucking Jaskier harder than before, probably harder than he’d meant to, but then Jaskier’s mouth fell open and his ass contracted and spasmed around Geralt’s cock like he was coming already. Geralt _growled_ as his hands left Jaskier’s hips and gripped his thighs, pushing them open wide as he shifted onto his knees and sunk his cock deeper and harder into his quivering hole. Jaskier wailed and clenched around him and Geralt laughed almost darkly as his poor little hole tried hard to push him out.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere, baby boy.” Geralt smirked, eyes blown wide with lust as a string of soft and desperate curses fell from Jaskier’s mouth and he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist as best he could, fingers clawing at his biceps, whole body trembling as Geralt ploughed his hips forward again and again. “You like that? Like getting _fucked_?”

“Feels so good.” Jaskier managed to whimper. His entire body was bowed against the bed and his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. His cock was rock hard and leaking pre-come into his navel and Geralt held Jaskier’s leg high to his chest with one hand and gripped his cock with the other. Jaskier’s breath hitched and Geralt couldn’t take his eyes away from his face, contorted in pleasure, and he didn’t slow his hips as he tugged Jaskier’s cock.

“Come for me, love.” Geralt nearly begged. “Want you to feel good for me.”

“Geralt, please, I _can’t_ …” Jaskier’s face crumpled and he fell absolutely silent as thick white ropes erupted from his glistening cockhead. He clamped down on Geralt’s cock almost punishingly as his legs shook under the force of his orgasm.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Geralt’s hips stuttered as Jaskier tightened around him. Blood poured down his back as Jaskier raked his fingernails across his shoulder blades and Geralt groaned. Whatever power that was holding off his own orgasm dissolved at the unexpected spark of pain and his cock ached and throbbed and his head tipped forward as he emptied his balls deep into the condom, nearly choking on his own spit under the force and intensity of it. His thighs tremored and his stomach rolled with each desperate, ragged breath in until he gave up and collapsed forward, his strong arms caging Jaskier’s head as Jaskier inched his arms around his waist and held him as he breathed heavily beneath him.

They stayed like that for a while until Geralt’s cock began to soften and he groaned against the heat of Jaskier’s neck and pushed himself awkwardly onto his hands. He barely winced as he felt the scratches down his back.

“Sorry.” Jaskier said shyly, his hands settling over the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Geralt could see his own blood underneath Jaskier’s fingernails and something primal stirred in his stomach. If he hadn’t just fucked himself limp, he would have hardened again.

“Don’t apologise.” Geralt growled, capturing Jaskier’s mouth and kissing him. Jaskier’s mouth fell open in shock and Geralt’s tongue tangled with his for a few hot, heavy moments before Geralt released him again. He stroked his hand through Jaskier’s damp hair and smirked.

“How was that?” He mumbled.

“It was amazing.” Jaskier sighed, running his hand up and down Geralt’s forearm with a soft smile on his face. “My brain has stopped working.”

Geralt chuckled warmly before he sat back on his ankles and pulled his cock slowly from Jaskier’s hole. It was gaping and red, wrecked from Geralt’s cock and he groaned before he buried his face between Jaskier’s thighs and sucked the lax ring of muscle.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelped, his hands tugging at Geralt’s hair. Geralt growled but didn’t move, tasting his ruined ass for a few glorious moments before pulling away and running a hand through his hair, raking it back out of his eyes as he grinned and licked his lips.

Jaskier was breathing heavily, one hand resting on his stomach while the other snaked under his thigh and his fingers dipped into his own hole.

“Fuck.” Jaskier murmured. “That was, fuck, that was so _fucking good_. You fucked me open.”

Geralt quirked his eyebrow in response.

“I was going easy on you because it was your first time.” He leant down and nipped playfully at Jaskier’s bottom lip as he blindly rolled the condom off of himself. It was beginning to stick to his soft cock, and it squelched under his fingers.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“Should I…?”

“No, no, you stay here.” Geralt kissed him again with renewed vigour. “Make yourself comfortable, I won’t be long.”

Jaskier rolled onto his side as Geralt hopped off of the bed and Jaskier watched him as he walked to the bathroom. His gaze raked appreciatively over the hard muscles of his back and the twin dribbles of blood running down them, his firm backside and the large scar running across the small of his back that Jaskier had briefly seen that night in the Travelodge.

The arms dealers had been dealt with, and a part of Jaskier wanted to never speak of it again, but another part of him longed to. He didn’t want to be a stranger to a large part of Geralt’s life, especially when he’d told Geralt his darkest secrets. Maybe Geralt wanted to talk about it, too, maybe he _needed_ to.

Jaskier heard the faint spray of running water and rolled onto his back, he was loose-limbed and calm from sex, but now that he was alone, his mind began to fret.

Geralt had been tortured and almost killed just a week ago, and here he was laughing and joking and _fucking_ like nothing had happened.

Eskel had said Geralt was used to it, and maybe that was true, but surely it never got any easier? More often than not, Jaskier had awoken in the night with a cold sweat and the taste of gun metal in his mouth. He couldn’t claim to have had the experiences that Geralt had had, but he knew what death looked like. He also knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved, and he knew that that was bothering Geralt as much any physical wound on his body. After Valdo had died, when Jaskier had been stuck inside his bedroom and pumped up on every drug under the sun, he’d felt so alone. He didn’t want Geralt to feel that way.

The water stopped and soon Geralt was padding back into the bedroom, running a grey towel over his torso. He dumped it by the bed before collapsing next to Jaskier. He was damp and he smelled faintly of soap and the bandage over his stab wound was fraying slightly at the edges. Jaskier wondered if the person who’d sewed him up had done a better job than him.

“Let me see your back.” He swallowed.

Geralt rolled over with a hum, expecting Jaskier to inspect the scratches he’d left on his back. Instead, he felt Jaskier’s fingertips draw lightly over the raised scar that bisected his lower back.

Jaskier was hesitant to touch such a vulnerable wound, but the angry purple had mellowed as the scar had healed and the shiver that went up Geralt’s spine was for a different reason.

Geralt turned back over and settled on his side and Jaskier mirrored him until they were face to face, but Geralt’s eyes didn’t quite meet his. Jaskier reached over and traced the healing cut on his cheekbone and Geralt responded by resting a hand on Jaskier’s hip and stroking silently.

Jaskier eased his hand down to Geralt’s chin, feeling the barest stubble from his hospital stay, before he drew Geralt’s head up and met his shame-filled eyes.

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No.” Geralt swallowed with a soft shake of his head. “I wanted to tell you before, but I just couldn’t.” He was quiet for a moment. Maybe it was the quiet room, maybe it was the sex, maybe it was the gentle stroke of Jaskier’s fingers on his chin, but somehow Geralt found the strength to speak.

“I had a partner.” He admitted. “Her name was Renfri and she was with me in Sudan. They killed her when we were outed but I wasn’t there. They took photographs and they showed me after it happened.” He gestured vaguely at his back. “The man that died at the scene, John Devenere, was the one who fucked my back up. It was odd, really, because usually he didn’t get his hands dirty, that’s what his brother was for, what I was for. I was his bodyguard for almost two years, and he had a lot of enemies, he just didn’t know I was one of them.” He smiled shallowly but there was pain behind it. “Sometimes I think he killed Renfri just to punish me, that it was my fault, and when he put that saw to my back, I honestly wanted him to finish the job. I loved her; she was like my Priscilla. I promised to protect her and then one day she walked out of the room and I never saw her again.” His voice cracked and he ran a hand over his mouth. He coughed dismissively and cleared his throat.

Jaskier closed the space between them and took Geralt’s head in his arms, holding him to his chest as a mother would. He felt Geralt’s lips quiver against his collarbone and his heart quivered in response.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered into Geralt’s hair because it was all he could say.

They stayed like that for a while. Jaskier rolled onto his back and Geralt lay on his chest, and the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart was a comfort to him, it reminded him that he was still alive.

“You know it wasn’t your fault she died.” Jaskier finally said softly. “It’s a dangerous job, I’m sure she knew that.”

“It is a dangerous job.” Geralt echoed shallowly. “It’s why I don’t…” He stopped himself before he said ‘date’ and flicked his gaze up to Jaskier. “Part of me feels guilty for caring about you when I can’t promise you that I’ll always come home.”

“I’ve thought about it once or twice.” Jaskier admitted honestly, running his fingers lazily through Geralt’s hair as he felt his soft breath burst hot against his chest. Geralt’s admission that he cared for him warmed his chest just as much as his body heat, but the subject was sobering enough that he couldn’t dwell on it. “There have been so many times that I’d thought you’d been taken from me, but this is who you are, Geralt Rivia, and that’s who I want.”

Geralt smiled sadly and closed his eyes, enjoying the fingers running across his scalp and the steady rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest beneath him.

“I could be killed tomorrow,” he said tiredly, “but I’d never be taken from you. You gave me hope when I thought there wasn’t any. Thank you, Jaskier.”

“ _Jaskier_.” Jaskier repeated fondly. “That’s nice to hear, you’re the only person who calls me ‘Jaskier’ anymore.”

“Sorry.” Geralt blushed. “I didn’t think.”

“No, I like it.” Jaskier cut across. “You’ve never tried to pretend I’m someone I’m not, you’ve never acted like my demons aren’t there. I think Jaskier might be yours, and Julian is everyone else’s.”

“My Jaskier.” Geralt echoed softly.


	17. could be all our demons, darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a heads up, this chapter contains allusions to non-con, violence, death and drug use, our boys are laid bare.

Chapter Seventeen

_could be all our demons, darling_

The incessant beep tore Jaskier from his restful sleep with a start. He jerked up and looked around the gloom of the unfamiliar room with tired eyes until he zeroed in on the source of the noise. The bright light made him wince and he groaned as he rolled over and thumbed the clock icon on the phone left on the beside cabinet and silenced it. Keeping one eye closed against the harsh glare, he peered at the bright screen to see that it was 5am.

He turned over softly. Geralt was still sleeping soundly beside him, hardly perturbed by the sound of his own alarm and Jaskier was grateful for it. The poor man needed his rest. He meant to collapse back down and go back to sleep, but even in the dark of Geralt’s bedroom, Jaskier could see the discomfort on his face. He frowned, his hand already reaching out for him, to urge him softly awake for his pain relief, but then a low moan fell from Geralt’s lips, followed by a mutter, and Jaskier hesitated. The agent was twitching against the bed, his muscles dancing with unspent energy that disturbed his sleep.

Jaskier eased himself softly and quietly back down to the bed. They’d fallen asleep together, both too tired and content to dress, and the cool air had bit into Jaskier’s bare torso the second he’d woken up and easing is arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders brought a welcome warmth from the scorching agent. Jaskier kept his eyes on him, his hands on his shoulders soft and soothing in an attempt to leave his sleep undisturbed as he waited patiently for his expression to ease.

Geralt’s whole body turned into Jaskier’s embrace with a grunt, his chest rising and falling as his breathing slowed and his hot breath burst against Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered tiredly as he rested his head in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder as he felt his muscles calming beneath his fingertips and he allowed his eyes to slide shut again.

It was almost midday by the time they stirred awake.

Geralt turned to him with a sleepy smile, his eyes barely open and his hair falling in knots over his shoulders.

“Good morning.” He rumbled.

“Morning.” Jaskier murmured back, resting his head on his hands as he watched Geralt shyly. “How did you sleep?”

“Mmm. Okay.” Geralt pushed himself up into a sitting position and raked his hands through his hair. He grunted softly as the covers pooled at his waist and revealed the scabbing line down his chest.

“You okay?” Jaskier asked softly.

“Yeah.” The discomfort was evident on his face, but his smile was genuine as he curled an arm around his own torso. “Always a bit rough in the morning, you know how it is.”

“I’m going to grab your pills, okay?”

“Okay.” Geralt responded somewhat quietly.

Jaskier was bright red as he slipped out from under the covers. He had no idea where his underwear had ended up and he had no choice but to cover his backside with his hands as he left the bedroom.

Geralt cocked his head to the side as he allowed his eyes to rake over Jaskier’s naked body and a small, happy smirk played on his lips. He took a soft breath and tried to focus on the pain in his chest and shoulder, to compare it to yesterday and remind himself it was getting better, he was healing, which made it easier for him to push it from his mind.

Soon enough, Jaskier returned with a crinkled paper bag of prescribed medication and a glass of water and set them down on the cabinet before finding his underwear and slipping it on to cover himself. Geralt smiled as he took his pills dutifully and Jaskier hovered at the side of the bed.

“You going to stand there all day?” Geralt teased.

“Hmm? No.” Jaskier flopped back onto the bed and Geralt laughed and leant forward and kissed him.

Jaskier made a surprised noise against his lips before his hand was carefully carding through Geralt’s hair and settling on the nape of his neck as he eased into the kiss. Geralt hummed happily before he was pulling away and their foreheads brushed together. Jaskier looked surprised, but also pleased, and Geralt took it as a good sign.

“Are you okay?” He murmured.

“Yeah.” Jaskier smiled, his fingertips drawing soft circles on the nape of Geralt’s neck. “I’m so good. I’m enjoying being here with you.”

“Good.” Geralt replied happily. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Jaskier asked shyly. He could still smell the scent of sweat and sex on his skin from their coupling the night before.

“Of course not.” Geralt rumbled, allowing his hand to run down Jaskier’s bare spine once before inclining his head. “It’s through there.”

Jaskier shivered at the hand on him and nodded mutely as his cheeks burned. Geralt relaxed somewhat back onto the bed as he watched Jaskier disappear into the bathroom. Part of him could hardly believe that he was here and that everything was going so well. The weight of expectation he’d attached to anything happening between them, romantic or otherwise, had been huge but the chemistry was still there as it always had been, and those little sparks of attraction had ballooned into soft touches and meaningful glances and the ability to reach for each other to ease the need they’d had to deny for so long. This was _good_. Geralt was unused to the foreign feeling in his gut, but he gladly accepted it.

He heard the spray of the shower and he forced himself out of bed. His body, sore and groggy, complained at him but he knew that his painkillers would kick in soon enough. The cold air bit at his bare skin as he crossed to his closet and slipped on a simple pair of dark, loose-fitting night bottoms for dignity as much as anything else. He ran a brush through his hair and tied the errant strands up in a messy bun, which barely captured most of it and left strands of white hair lying against his back.

He made coffee in the kitchen and glanced up as he heard movement in the bathroom. Used to living alone, he had to quell that voice in his head that told him to go for his gun and sneak up on the intruder, and instead he smiled to himself. From his place at the kitchen counter, he followed Jaskier’s silhouette through the frosted glass with his eyes as he moved through the bedroom before turning his attentions back to the coffee machine. Finally, the fatigue of sleep and pain was beginning to lessen and just the smell of caffeine up his nose was invigorating.

He checked his phone. It was blown up with messages from Eskel and Lambert, but he ignored them for now. He wasn’t as mentally _there_ as he needed to be to talk to anyone just yet. They understood better than anyone else the effects of the job, that he would need time, and he was grateful that no worry passed through him as he left his phone on the side and took the black, ceramic mugs into the living room.

He found Jaskier already there, sitting cross-legged on the black rug with his back against the arm of one of the sofas and in front of the coffee table. He would have smiled and shook his head at himself at Jaskier’s inability to use furniture properly, but two things stopped him. The first was hypocrisy, and the second was that Jaskier was still wearing his boxers but now he was also wearing one of Geralt’s own t shirts. It was long and dark, and it hung loose on Jaskier’s frame, stopping mid-thigh. His eyes were tired, and his hair was sticking up and Geralt swallowed and damn-near dropped the coffee mugs. He was beautiful.

Jaskier glanced up at Geralt as he stood there holding the mugs, wearing nothing but low-riding bottoms that sat on the sharp cut of his hip bones. His hair was half up, half down and his toned chest was littered with cuts and bruises and something rumbled in his chest at the sight of him. He was so masculine, so strong, so perfect.

“Hi.” Jaskier said timidly. “Sorry.” He fisted the shirt he was wearing at the collar. “I would have asked but I didn’t want to disturb you and I didn’t, you know, want to put my work shirt back on. I hope it’s okay.”

“It suits you.” Geralt smiled dopily, and it was probably the most switched off that Jaskier had ever seen him.

Geralt tried not to get caught up in the sight of Jaskier in _his_ shirt, and how even though his broad torso meant that it swamped the poor lad, it was still maybe only two sizes up. The thought went straight to his groin and he internally sighed at himself and forced himself not to think with his dick as he placed the ceramic mugs on the glass coffee table with a soft ‘clack’ and pulled his legs in to sit on the floor as well, his back coming to rest on the welcome softness of the cushioned sofa leg. He hummed as he absentmindedly fiddled with the gauze on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” Jaskier murmured softly as he scooted towards him and clasped his coffee mug. He sipped it straight away and let out a pleased sound. It was black with _almost_ the right amount of sugar, just as he’d ordered in the _Little Chef_ all those months ago. Geralt had _remembered_.

“So,” Geralt said finally, sipping his own coffee and relaxing into the small space between them. “I think we should talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Jaskier asked innocently.

Geralt looked at him then. The same thing that had been on his mind since he’d checked his phone. Still, he paused.

“Sudan.”

“But I thought…” Jaskier frowned as his mind went back to their late-night, post-coital conversation about the subject. But of course, Geralt would have more to say, and Jaskier was at least glad he trusted him enough to open up, even if the subject matter did perforate a hole in the happy fugue of his mind.

“Not about me.” Geralt surprised him with a small smile. “About you. It was you, wasn’t it, sweetheart?” He asked kindly, words softened by the term of endearment. “You hacked Ben Willshore’s emails and you sent them to me.”

“Oh.” Jaskier said quietly, his fingers dancing around the rim of his mug. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?” He asked. “Why would you do it? You could have gotten into trouble, or even hurt.” Geralt didn’t seem particularly annoyed or angry with Jaskier, just curious.

“I thought it would help you.” Jaskier admitted timidly. “To find them and finish it. And it did, right? Everything’s a bit better now?” It was a heartbreakingly innocent question.

“Yes and no.” Geralt admitted with a sigh. This wasn’t how he wanted this conversation to go. He tugged on his hair instinctively. “I thought that when John Devenere died, that something would happen. I thought something would change and everything would make sense, but it didn’t. Whether it was because I didn’t kill him or because it didn’t matter who killed him, I don’t know. Him being dead, Colin Devenere being behind bars, it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.” He sighed, wondering when this had got so heated and wondering why he’d made this all about him. For some reason, all his thoughts from his last week in the hospital just came tumbling out. “They can’t change the way I’m feeling inside, only I can do that. I understand that now. That’s what Doctor Merigold is always saying. So yes, they’ve been stopped, and they can’t hurt anyone else, but I still need to let go of what happened, which is proving to be more difficult than I thought.”

“It’s not easy.” Jaskier agreed. “I still haven’t let go of…” He trailed off and hugged his knees, his silence a deafening testament to the truth of his statement. “But I hope to, some day. It’s all we can do, right?”

There was a pause.

“They never found her body.” Geralt said quietly, more to himself than to Jaskier.

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier asked instinctively before he registered what Geralt had actually said. He winced as he realised that he’d just asked him to repeat himself.

“Those photographs I mentioned,” Geralt cleared his throat and placed his coffee mug down before turning his hands over as if seeing them there. “That was all I ever got. After I was extracted, a team went back to the villa to sweep the area, but they never found her. She’s still out there. She’s alone. I know that sounds _stupid_ because she’s dead but,” his voice cracked slightly, “I can’t say goodbye to an empty grave, you know?”

“Can they go back?” Jaskier frowned, eyes full of sorrow as he regarded Geralt’s pain and knew he couldn’t do a thing about it.

“It’s been almost a year; I don’t think there’s anything to go back to.” He shuddered against the morbidity of the subject and then he took a deep breath and frowned heavily. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping any of this on you. I started this conversation to say thank you for what you did and how I can never repay you. You saved the country and me, you dealt with the mole and the Devenere’s and I’m so proud of you, that’s what I meant, I didn’t mean for it to be a whole thing.”

Geralt’s words of gratitude flushed straight through Jaskier, filling him with the warmth he’d been dreaming of and it was all too easy to close the space between them and reach tentatively for Geralt’s hand. The agent’s thick fingers wrapped around his palm like a venus fly trap and Jaskier’s throat thickened at the inescapable feeling of being _wanted_.

“You’re allowed to have feelings, okay? You’re allowed to be upset by this. Letting go doesn’t mean shutting out. You’ve got to feel your feelings to process them, right? That’s what my grief counsellor always used to say.”

Geralt smiled minutely. He always managed to forget that Jaskier wasn’t some wilting flower there to listen to his problems. He was steadfast and weathered and he’d been through the same shit as Geralt had. He understood and his advice meant something.

“You’re right.” Geralt assured him thankfully. “I guess I’ve got some unsaid shit.” He frowned then, a knee-jerk reaction whenever he remembered precisely how fucked-up he actually was. He didn’t want Jaskier to witness it. “I don’t mind if this isn’t what you want, you know, you deserve someone _uncomplicated_.”

“Is that a joke?” Jaskier asked fondly. He eased closer still until their knees were knocking together. Geralt’s hand moved to Jaskier’s elbow and their chests turned inward. Geralt’s hand was in his hair, urging his head over and then their lips were sliding open and meeting in a slow, deep kiss that seemed to go on forever, lap after gentle, wet lap of lips and tongue. Geralt turned his head and his nose brushed Jaskier’s and Jaskier’s head span as his hands found Geralt’s shoulders to ground himself. He never meant to shove, but he must have done because suddenly Geralt was on his back on the rug and his hands were grasping Jaskier’s hips and bringing him down on top of him until their solid chests were tight together. Jaskier’s hands hit the rug on either side of Geralt’s head and he tried to push himself up but Geralt’s hands were around his neck and then they were kissing again until Jaskier stilled, forgetting everything else except for the man beneath him. Their lips moved together like they were meant to and Jaskier pulled back for just a moment, searching eyes meeting Geralt’s hazy orbs before he took a breath and let his tongue lap wetly at Geralt’s lips. Geralt sighed and opened his mouth, his teeth catching Jaskier’s bottom lip as he sunk his tongue into his mouth. Jaskier whimpered in a mixture of pain and pleasure and his arms shook and gave out and he collapsed on top of Geralt.

Geralt chuckled as he held Jaskier around his torso, pulling him against his side and Jaskier huffed breathlessly as he let his arms flop around Geralt’s chest.

“Well, that was unexpected, but I’m not complaining.”

“Shut up.” Jaskier mumbled.

“You pushed me to the floor, you minx.”

“I did not!”

“My current view of the ceiling would say otherwise.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the fit of giggles he dissolved into as he buried his face into Geralt’s bare side, breathing in his scent from his skin. It reminded him of waking up.

“Were you having a nightmare last night?” He asked.

There was a very long pause and Jaskier stared at Geralt’s ribs.

“I think so.” He replied finally.

“What was it about? Renfri? Or…John?”

“Colin.” Geralt closed his eyes against the ceiling. “We _really_ don’t need to talk about him. He’s classified and he’s fucking insane.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier frowned, propping himself up on his elbow to look at him. He was _not_ expecting the look of unease he found on the agent’s face. “What the hell did he do?” He asked.

Geralt kept his eyes closed but his jaw flexed.

“Things you didn’t want him to do.” He supplied quietly.

Suddenly, inexplicably, something in the air reminded Jaskier of the day with the junkie in the toilet. Something _horrible_ slotted into place and a ball of dread plopped in Jaskier’s gut.

“Did he…?”

“No, not to me.” Geralt admitted a little hollowly, his arm curling protectively around Jaskier’s waist and pulling him closer. “But it was his favourite threat.” Geralt’s chest rumbled under his soft words. “He used knives and he’d…” He shook his head as he remembered the handle of his own dagger being pushed against him. Colin was such a master of violence and torture that he could use any inch of a weapon to cause pain.

Jaskier stayed silent for a while as he struggled to piece together exactly what Geralt was telling him, but whatever it was, it seemed he could go no further. Jaskier knew Colin had been the one who had tortured Geralt, and he wondered sickeningly whether their encounter had been the time he’d finally made good on his threat.

“Did he touch you?” Jaskier’s meaning was implicit in his devastating words.

“Yeah.” Geralt admitted honestly. “But nothing really happened. It’s just in my head.”

“Were you dreaming about it because of what we did?” Tears brimmed at Jaskier’s eyes as he spoke.

“No, sweetheart.” Geralt found himself smiling as he ran his fingers lazily and contentedly up and down Jaskier’s clothed spine. “I was dreaming about it because it happened last week, I still dream about things that happened years ago.” He didn’t swallow, he was past that. “What happened last night, what we did, was _mind-blowing_. I hope one day that it’s dreams like that that keep me up.”

“Who knew you were so soft?” Jaskier teased softly, pressing his face into Geralt’s neck and enjoying the way he felt him _rumble_. If Geralt was happy to let his haunting memories go, Jaskier certainly wasn’t going to force the subject. “It wasn’t bad, was it? I thought it would be terrible. Or, I would be terrible.”

“You were perfect.” Geralt rolled them and settled on top of Jaskier with his strong arms on either side of his head in a perfect imitation of Jaskier before. The rug on the floor was soft against his calloused palms as he leant down and kissed him softly. “You are perfect. We can learn together, yeah?”

Jaskier gripped Geralt’s hips as he allowed himself to be softly kissed. Geralt began to trail soft kisses down his neck and Jaskier sighed, his body going limp as his cock stiffened in his boxers.

“ _Geralt_.”

“You knew what you were doing when you wore my shirt, you tease.” Geralt growled as he nipped at Jaskier’s neck and Jaskier yelped.

“Geralt, _fuck_.”

Geralt pressed his chest tight to Jaskier’s chest as he lowered himself down, taking the weight off of his arms and instead trailing his hands down Jaskier’s sides.

“Do you even know what I want to do to you?” Geralt growled. “Do you know how hard you make me?” He pressed his crotch against Jaskier’s and, true to his word, his solid cock rubbed against Jaskier’s and Jaskier gasped as his hips arched off of the rug to meet Geralt and chase those sparks of pleasure.

“Fuck.” He moaned, absolutely overwhelmed.

“Is it too much?” Geralt asked honestly.

“No.” Jaskier shook his head as best he could, reaching his head up to find Geralt’s lips again and sighing when he did. “I’ve never felt his way before, never wanted to do these things, please show me how.”

“What would you like to do?” Geralt asked kindly, one hand reaching between them to rub their cocks together and Jaskier gasped, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Geralt’s eyes darkened.

“Do you want to taste me?” He tried hopefully.

“Yeah.” Jaskier admitted, a blush easing across his cheeks. “But I’ve never…I want to make you feel good, but I don’t want to hurt you or anything.”

Geralt grinned as he pushed himself up into a standing position and pulled Jaskier with him.

“Come on, we’re not doing this on the floor.”

“Such a gentleman.” Jaskier giggled as Geralt lead him back to the bedroom and nodded with his head for Jaskier to sit. Jaskier did and watched as Geralt eased his bottoms down, his heavy cock springing free and jutting towards him, the tip pink and glistening. Jaskier could hardly believe he’d managed to fit it inside of him at all, but the memory of the pleasure made his own cock twitch interestedly and he palmed himself as he watched Geralt.

Geralt smiled down at him as he eased himself down onto his knees, keeping a hand on Jaskier’s cheek as he sat himself against the headboard. He drew his legs apart and kept his knees up, his cock pointing towards his abdomen.

Jaskier’s eyes flitted between Geralt’s legs and up to his eyes nervously and Geralt kept his expression as soft as he could despite his arousal, and he let his thumb stroke across Jaskier’s cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier smiled shyly. “Just nervous.”

“Don’t be.” Geralt’s smile grew wider. “We all start somewhere, right? Lie on your front, between my legs, okay? Get yourself nice and comfy. I’ll guide you. If you want to stop at any time, just let me know, okay? I won’t be mad, I promise.”

Jaskier nodded, grateful for Geralt’s cool and calming words as he settled on his front on the bed and adjusted himself until he was comfortable. The pressure of the mattress against his cock was welcome and he let his fingers dance over Geralt’s bare ankles as he glanced shyly at the cock mere inches from his mouth. It was hot and hard and _throbbing_ , and arousal flushed through him.

“Geralt…”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

This was _nothing_ like the junkie in the toilet. Seeing his cock had filled Jaskier with despair and fear but now looking at Geralt’s cock, he was nervous, but he _wanted_ to reach out and taste it, to feel the hot flesh on his tongue and to make Geralt moan in pleasure and maybe even come. The thought made him giddy.

He reached a hand out and wrapped his long fingers around the base of Geralt’s cock and Geralt’s breath hitched.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah, feels good.” Geralt grunted, letting his fingers rest in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier smiled at the contact before pulling Geralt’s cock towards him. His hesitant eyes fell to Geralt’s thick crown. Geralt’s slit was pink and wet with precome, and it was then that Jaskier truly appreciated that Geralt was _vulnerable_ right now. He trusted Jaskier not to hurt him. He’d always subconsciously assumed that sex was about the one fucking and the one being fucked, but Geralt’s body was every bit as pliable and breakable as his, and he had been broken, so to trust him to hold him like this and not abuse him as Colin Devenere would have done, sent shivers up Jaskier’s spine.

“I want to make you feel good.” Jaskier admitted honestly, his hot breath bursting against Geralt’s cock which twitched in response.

“You do.” Geralt smiled, running his fingers through Jaskier’s scalp. “Do you think you could lick it?”

“How?” Jaskier asked earnestly and Geralt smiled fondly.

“I don’t mind. Whatever feels natural.”

“Right.” Jaskier’s mouth was dry and he tried to conjure up enough spit, so his tongue wasn’t like sandpaper on Geralt’s cock.

He shifted forward slightly before running his wet tongue slowly over the underside of Geralt’s shaft. It didn’t really taste of anything except maybe _heat_ , and Geralt hummed in response so Jaskier did it again, flattening his tongue and broadening his licks to capture more of Geralt’s cock.

“Fuck, yeah, that feels good.” The words rumbled from Geralt’s chest as his eyes stayed fixed on Jaskier. Encouraged that he was doing the right thing, Jaskier held Geralt’s cock steady and moved up until he was lapping softly at Geralt’s frenulum. The agent must have been particularly sensitive there because his cock jumped and so did the muscles in his thighs.

A low grown came from Geralt’s closed lips as he inched his hand down from Jaskier’s hair to the back of his neck and gripped him tight. Jaskier enjoyed his firm grasp and when he resumed his soft licks to Geralt’s sensitive flesh, like a kitten lapping milk from its saucer, Geralt’s hand tightened around the nape of his neck and shoved Jaskier’s tongue harder against him.

“Shit, sorry.” Geralt stilled himself as a blush of arousal and embarrassment spread across his cheeks. “Feels good, love. When you’re ready do you think you could…let me in your mouth?”

Jaskier mimicked Geralt’s embarrassment with his own. The whole point of sucking cock was to _actually_ suck it. He nodded to himself as he let his mouth fall open into an oval shape around Geralt’s cockhead. His mind went immediately to his teeth, and he worried he’d scrape him, so when he eased his lips around his crown, he did so gently and carefully.

Geralt let out a surprised little huff as Jaskier sucked his crown into his mouth and he stroked soothingly and gratefully down Jaskier’s neck.

“You look so good like that, angel, with my cock in your mouth.” As if a testament to his words, Jaskier felt a warm dollop of precome drizzle onto his tongue and he surprised himself by moaning. It had a musky, salty taste of Geralt and, fuck, did he love it.

“Knew you’d love sucking cock.” Geralt murmured. The filthy works fell unhindered from his tongue and made Jaskier blush. He looked up at him and saw the warm liquid of his eyes and tried to recall the daggers present there when they’d first met but, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t remember.

Jaskier stayed still for a long time and marvelled at the way Geralt sat heavy and trickling on his tongue. He felt Geralt’s hand on his cheek, his fingers stroking softly and getting his attention and he glanced up at him again.

“Wanna try sucking a little bit, beautiful?”

Jaskier flushed again, from embarrassment and arousal and the terms of endearment that fell from the agent’s mouth. Who knew Geralt had such love to give?

He swallowed as best he could before his grip tightened on Geralt’s ankle and he sucked in, his cheeks hollowing to the point of discomfort around his thick crown and spittle spilled from his taut lips and down Geralt’s shaft. Jaskier’s fist wettened and he took advantage of it by moving his hand slowly up and down his cock, as shallow and gentle as he would to himself, and Geralt _moaned_ as his hips lifted and he chased the sensation.

“ _Fuck_.” He groaned. “Feels so fucking good.” His eyes slid shut, and his brow furrowed as he sunk a little deeper in Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier felt the soft drag of Geralt’s thick cock up and down on his tastebuds as the agent rolled his hips so softly that he probably didn’t even realise he was doing it.

Jaskier watched him with adoring eyes as he stretched so beautifully, took what he needed from him, showed Jaskier what brought him pleasure and soon enough Jaskier was mimicking him, gripping his cock a little tighter and _bobbing_ his head up and down over Geralt in the same repetitive motion.

“ _Jaskier_.” The word was breathless as Geralt gripped his cheek tighter while his other hand pinched his own nipple and his cock bobbed in Jaskier’s mouth.

Controlling his breathing as best he could, Jaskier sunk down a little bit further. He had less than half of Geralt’s cock in his mouth but already the stretch was intense, and his eyes rolled as he lathered him with his tongue. After a few exploratory licks, his tongue swiped across Geralt’s slit and Jaskier hummed happily as he lapped that familiar salty precome straight onto his tongue.

“Hnn.” The noise that came from Geralt was uncharacteristically high-pitched and made Jaskier smile as Geralt’s eyes fell open and he looked down at Jaskier, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes lust blown.

“Jask…you’re going to make me come.”

The thought of Geralt shooting his load down his throat was filthy and erotic simultaneously and Jaskier longed to be flooded with what he’d only been able to greedily lap at before and he smirked around the thick length spearing him open as he tightened his fist on Geralt’s cock, enjoying the way he jumped and throbbed in his hand. He hollowed his cheeks and _sucked_ , bobbing his head and dragging Geralt’s crown over every ridge of his tongue.

Geralt’s thighs shook and his cock throbbed on Jaskier’s tongue and his head tipped back, his expression almost one of pain.

“Fuck, fuck, Jaskier, I’m going to come, I’m-” It was all the warning Jaskier got before Geralt groaned in relief and his entire body melted against the bed as he poured himself into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier let out a high whine as his mouth was overwhelmed by Geralt’s thick spend. He tried to swallow, he really did, but he was unused to being filled so fully and come gathered at the corners of his lips and dribbled back down Geralt’s cock before pattering onto the sheets below.

Geralt breathed heavily as he eased his heavy cock from Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier sighed as he wrapped his hands around Geralt’s thighs and hugged him despite the peculiar angle. Geralt’s cock dragged along his cheek as his body collapsed and he let his tongue sneak out and run through the mess of come and spit that stained them both.

“Fuck, baby boy, stop.” Geralt laughed as he eased Jaskier’s face away as his dick bobbed helplessly. “It’s sensitive.”

“But it tastes nice.” Jaskier pouted up at him, immediately regretting it when Geralt’s expression darkened and he was pulled up with a yelp. Geralt’s broad tongue lapped the come from his cheek before finding Jaskier’s mouth and swallowing his whimpers down. Jaskier’s hands pressed uselessly against Geralt’s chest as he was kissed hard and breathless and his mind ran away from him. When Geralt was finally done with him, it took Jaskier a few moments to find his voice.

“So, I did okay, then?” He blushed.

“Yeah, not bad for a beginner.” Geralt teased as he wrapped his arms around Jaskier. “It’s fun, right?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t think I’d actually _enjoy_ it. I thought it would be all about you.”

“Sex is about _us_.” Geralt informed him simply. “Anything else is just, I don’t know, glorified masturbation?”

Jaskier blushed even harder and gripped Geralt’s shoulder blade, letting his hand fall from the bandage and wrap around his rock-solid bicep with a shudder.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Anytime, angel.” Geralt laughed before his eyes were falling to Jaskier’s straining prick. It was red and heavy with blood and need.

“Oh, hello.” Geralt murmured, reaching down and grasping it.

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier groaned through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into Geralt’s flesh. Every touch to his cock was like a lightning bolt that sent shivers through his whole body.

“Hmm?” Geralt’s low rumble didn’t stop his hand from wanking Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier wailed as his thighs shook and he winced.

“Geralt, I’m going to…”

“No, you’re not.”

Jaskier was on his side in an instant and Geralt was wrenching his leg up and over his shoulder before diving between his legs and swallowing his cock. Jaskier shrieked as his hard and aching length was suddenly nestled in the warm, wet cavern of Geralt’s mouth. He throbbed against Geralt’s hot tongue, every nerve ending in his cock on fire and he knew he would have come if he didn’t _need_ , but he couldn’t _ask_ …

Geralt’s fingers pressed against his mouth, already open with his low moans and he let out a surprised noise as his lips instinctively closed around the thick digits. Geralt’s head bobbed between his legs, his tongue dragging along the vulnerable flesh of his engorged crown and Jaskier hardly noticed the fingers in his mouth until they weren’t there anymore. The trail left by his own spittle as Geralt’s hand travelled down his body began to cool and Jaskier gasped as he felt the thick digits probing at his hole, rubbing tight circles at the sensitive rim of muscle, and dipping inside a few millimetres teasingly.

Jaskier’s whole body jerked and he clawed at Geralt’s neck and then he was on the precipice. He pushed his ass back against Geralt’s hand, then snapped his hips forward for his mouth, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Please, please, please.” Was all he managed to beg and Geralt chuckled around his cock as he sunk his index finger inside him shallowly until it was barely up to the knuckle and flexed inside him and Jaskier _wailed_ as he came hard down Geralt’s throat. He wasn’t able to give any warning, all he could do was shiver and buck as he was assaulted with pleasure. His hands found Geralt’s hair and held him as his hips stuttered. Geralt’s tongue pressed soft and gentle licks to his cock to help him through his orgasm as his finger massaged inside him and Jaskier felt like he was coming for hours. The aftershocks caused his body to jerk out of his control and when he finally fell back against the bed he was exhausted as if he’d just run a marathon.

Geralt eased his finger out of Jaskier’s hole and he licked his lips as he climbed up next to him.

“You might feel that later.” His expression was apologetic. “That was a bit rough, I’m sorry.”

“ _No_.” Jaskier gripped his jaw and kissed him. Geralt hummed against his lips. They settled happily next to each other, sharing soft kisses and naughty touches and neither of them had been happier in a long time.

“We stayed out of bed for long.” Geralt chuckled and Jaskier blushed. Geralt responded by drawing him into his side and burying his face into his neck. “Best recovery ever.” Jaskier felt his rumbling words. “Who needs drugs?”

“Not me.” Jaskier joked lightly.

The resultant silence was palpable and Geralt sighed as he drew back to look at him.

“Sorry.” Jaskier admitted guiltily. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Can I ask?”

“Of course, you can.” Jaskier fiddled with Geralt’s fingers. “I’m not in rehab or anything, but I am seeing a therapist. We’ve identified some of my triggers, mainly they’re stressful and traumatic situations, and I’ve got people to call if I need to…” He winced as he remembered how close he’d come to shooting up when he’d thought Geralt was dead, and how little thought he’d given to phoning his therapist.

“It’s hard sometimes, but the last time I used was…the night I sewed your back up.” He admitted miserably.

“Hey.” Geralt eased his face up to his and his eyes were warm and liquid like honey. “You’re doing an amazing job. I’ll support you whatever it takes, and when it gets hard, _I’ll_ be here, okay?”

The words wrapped around Jaskier’s heart like his arms around his body and Jaskier melted against him.

“Thank you, you’re my hero.”

Geralt smiled as he ran his hand up and down Jaskier’s spine. They lay there for a long time, both trying to convince themselves to get out of bed but never quite managing it. Jaskier tried to pinpoint the familiar feeling in his gut and where it was coming from, what he was reminded of, and he smiled when his brain invariably gave up the answer.

“ _O what can ail thee, knight at arms?_ ” He whispered softly into Geralt’s side. “ _Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, and no birds sing_.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow and a soft, rumbling laugh fell from his lips.

“You know Keats?”

“What, just because I’m a technical support officer in MI6 doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate poetry?” Jaskier quipped back happily.

Geralt groaned and Jaskier giggled.

“You really do remember everything, don’t you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Christ.” Geralt’s hands settled possessively on Jaskier’s hips. “I’ve already lost every fight we’re ever going to have.”

“Mhmm.” Jaskier shivered under Geralt’s hold and rolled until he was on top of him, tracing Geralt’s scars with the pads of his fingertips. “In fact, you should probably start making it up to me right now.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and his hands travelled down and cupped Jaskier’s ass, his lips finding his neck.

“Is that right?”


	18. Frankenstein's monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a little self-indulgent chapter for my bestie who loves Colin. We know this beast all too well, so a heads up for drug use, violence, murder, blood, gore, non-con and dark twisted shit from our favourite sick, sadistic, psychotic fuck 😊 

Chapter Eighteen

_Frankenstein’s monster_

“This is fucking bullshit.” Geralt muttered, drumming his fingers against his taut bicep as he leant with his arms crossed against the large window and _glared_ inside.

“You don’t have to go in.” The officer whose name Geralt hadn’t bothered to learn said absentmindedly, without looking up from his paperwork and showing Geralt the same courtesy. “He asked for you. Who are we to deny MI6 anything?” His sarcasm was palpable.

Geralt raised an eyebrow in his direction before returning his glare to the window, or, more specifically, to the person sitting behind it.

The nameless officer stood and held his clipboard to his chest almost protectively as he looked Geralt up and down with an affected look of boredom on his face.

Geralt waited patiently for the threat, the _compulsion_ for this _uniform_ to throw his weight around simply because Geralt happened to be under his jurisdiction.

“If I let you in there, are you going to try to kill him?”

Geralt’s eyelids fluttered as a surge of coiled rage scorched through his nerve endings.

“There is no _try_.” He growled, tearing his gaze away from the window and delighting in the way the officer looked genuinely concerned. He rolled his eyes.

“Not today.” He sighed as he turned back to the window as if compelled to look as his forehead came to rest against the cool glass. He knew he couldn’t be seen from this side, and he let his eyes drop and instead watched the condensation of his own breath as it gathered on the glass.

“Good, sign this then.”

Geralt caught sight of the clipboard being thrust towards him in his periphery and reached for it without moving his head. He scribbled his signature down on the dotted line and passed the form back and then the officer was unlocking the door and letting Geralt into the interview room, but not without following closely behind himself.

There were two armed guards stood on either side of the inside of the door and Geralt spared them a glance as he walked past. He’d been forced to surrender his own firearm at the desk and felt surprisingly naked without it. His eyes travelled over the guards, automatically assessing whether he could take them both unarmed before he turned his gaze away. He liked his chances.

The room was large and light and sparse, furnished with nothing but a plastic table dead in the centre with a tape recorder perched in the right-hand corner. It was exactly the same as every other interview room Geralt had ever seen, and he’d seen a few.

There were four chairs around the table, two on either side. The two closest to the door were unoccupied, and the two facing them weren’t.

One of the men was unmistakably an overpaid lawyer with a stern albeit baby face who looked as if sixty percent of his personality was his sharp blue suit, and the other forty percent was his neat haircut. Geralt didn’t pay him much mind, because in the other chair, was the slouching form of Colin Devenere.

He wore a granite grey jumper and identical jogging bottoms that sat low on his hips. His hair was longer than Geralt remembered and hung limp in his eyes. His arms were loosely crossed and even with the baggy jumper on, Geralt could still see the outline of his biceps as they strained against the fabric.

“Why isn’t he cuffed?” Geralt asked the officer to his side quietly, even so, his gruff voice travelled across the relatively small room.

Colin tipped his head to the side as he regarded the agent, a shallow grin painted on his face.

“Are you scared of me, Geralt?” He drawled.

Geralt’s expression was unreadable as he sat stiffly down opposite Colin and crossed his legs. The officer sat beside him with decidedly more ease, but that was because he didn’t know what the man, who said unrestrained, was capable of.

The last time the two of them had been in the same room, Colin had been torturing Geralt, and he still wore many of the marks Colin had left on him. He did notice however, with a twisted smirk, that the bridge of Colin’s nose was red and scabbed where Geralt had broken it. Luckily for him, it looked to have set straight.

“Why?” Was all Geralt said, his voice rough like gravel and laced with hatred.

Colin stared back at him defiantly, as if it simply never occurred to him to be intimidated, but he seemed subdued somehow. His eyes were sunken in and dull from withdrawal and sleeplessness, but they still sparkled with the same madness that haunted Geralt’s dreams.

Colin shrugged his broad shoulders and leant forward, uncrossing his arms and letting his hands fall into his lap. He dwarfed the lawyer sat beside him.

“They tell me my sentencing will be decided on how much I tell them.” His grin was small, but it was there.

Geralt growled but he couldn’t argue. It was a rigmarole he knew all too well. Usefulness saved you from prison in their field and being the head of an internationally feared arms dealership that had almost crippled the British government made you very useful, indeed.

Colin would never be a free man, but Geralt would bet his pension on the fact that he’d have one of the most comfortable prison sentences in British history.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Geralt crossed his arms as he rearranged his back against the chair. He tried to ignore the unpleasant shivers it sent up his spine so at least they didn’t show on his face. The tremors of panic brought with it the unwelcome mental image of Colin bounding across the table and sinking something sharp and painful into his shoulder. He clenched his jaw.

“Because I’m going to tell you about the night Emma died.”

“ _Renfri_.”

Colin’s smile dropped. If Geralt reacted, he didn’t let it show on his face. He didn’t know why Colin was doing this. It was probably because he thought it was one last way to torture him, but the harsh reality was that it was a mercy.

A part of Geralt wanted to spit in his face, to leave this room and never return, but he knew he wouldn’t be getting up from his chair even if it was a on fire.

“Talk.”

…

**_Around 1 year ago_ **

Colin’s shirt hung unbuttoned against his ribs, framing his abdomen and he could feel the cool air of the evening through the open window on his bare skin. He’d been mid-dressing when his brother, John, had stormed into his bedroom with a manic look on his face and a stream of near-unintelligible babble already falling from his mouth.

If he was still talking, Colin didn’t know, because all he could hear was ringing in his ears.

_Her real name is Renfri, she’s with MI6._

Colin’s eyes were trained blankly on the hardwood floor of his bedroom and the chill in the air seemed to intensify somehow and it was the first time since he’d come to Sudan that he’d been _cold_.

“I know how you feel.” John’s voice swam back into focus. “He fucking betrayed me, after all the times I watched him save my life. I thought I could trust him.”

“It’s not the same.” Colin’s voice was soft and hollow, and John’s eyes zeroed in accusingly on him.

“You didn’t fall in love with the traitorous whore, did you?”

“Of course not!” Colin snapped, glaring at John for the first time. He felt the tell-tale itch in his veins and his fingers flexed, as if subconsciously reaching for the coke lying tantalising close beside the half-drunk martini on the minibar in the corner of the room.

“ _Good_.” John seemed unperturbed by his brother’s erratic behaviour. “Because you’re going to take care of her.”

Colin was already shaking his head.

“No, I-”

John lashed out and seized the scruff of Colin’s open shirt. Colin yelped angrily as pain shot through his upper arms where the fabric tightened around his biceps and he was forced to bow his head to meet his brother’s height.

“It’s them or us, Col.” John growled, his eyes alight with fury. “You think she loves you? It’s _fake_. The whole thing is fake, it always has been. I’m the only one who loves you.”

He was shaking Colin’s collar violently, but Colin was taller than John, and a thick slab of muscle, so physically he barely registered the violent act, but the tremor of John’s words sliced through his nerves like razor blades.

Somewhere, in Colin’s fractured mind, he could see her face. Emma’s face. She was smiling at him like a glue that could stick him back together and now she wasn’t real, just like everything else.

“I don’t think I can.”

John struck him hard across the face. The force of knuckles cracking against cheekbone turned Colin’s head and he didn’t look back as pain pricked under his skin. He closed his eyes as he felt the warm trickle of blood down his bottom lip.

Colin shook imperceptibly as rage flooded through his veins, but he didn’t move. He wouldn’t fight back, and John knew it. When he turned back to his brother, his eyes were ablaze, he was thrumming with anger and blood bubbled scarlet at his split lip.

_There_ was the monster John created.

…

The screech of the razor blade across glass rang painfully in Colin’s ears. His knees felt heavy against the floor as he separated the white lines neatly in front of him with the blade across the glass coffee table. He bent over it and snorted all three lines in quick succession.

His head tipped back and he groaned loudly as pain shot up his nose and a mixture of barbed wires and lightning strikes shot down his veins as the coke entered his blood stream. He breathed heavily as the ceiling warped and twisted above him and he slumped forward on his knees.

His head fell between his shoulders, his chin resting against his collarbone as his hair fell into his eyes and his chest rose and fell erratically as his mind spiralled.

Nearly two years he’d spent with her. He’d been _himself_ with her and told her all of his secrets, she’d become a drug to him as much as the cocaine, and it was all a lie. It wasn’t real. She didn’t love him, no matter how many times she’d said it. John was right, John was always right, who could ever love him?

When he raised his head, he was the shattered remains of himself, with nothing but rage and anguish in his heart.

…

Colin shoved ‘Emma’ up against the wall of his bedroom with a _thud_. She yelped but he kissed it away. His hands tangled in her shoulder-length brown hair while his hips pinned hers firmly to the wall while their lips and tongues danced together in ferocious and familiar passion.

There was something _devastating_ about the kiss. It was so intimate but so false and they both knew it. It was just an act to manipulate the other and yet she whimpered against him and his heart broke anew in his chest.

Colin let his hands roam over her body, each line and curve of her hips memorised in his mind and he realised that even now he was taking his time, even after everything, he was _enjoying_ her, and he wasn’t surprised when his cock hardened in his jeans.

‘Emma’ sunk her teeth into his bottom lip and Colin snarled, pressing his erection against her hip as his hands travelled up, cupping her jaw and pressing their foreheads together. His eyes were hazy from the coke, his mind addled, but his face crumpled, tragic and broken, as he looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection in her hollow pupils.

“Col, what’s wrong?” She asked breathlessly.

The worry on her face looked so genuine that Colin almost believed her, he wanted to, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t snorted three lines of cocaine to lose his bottle at the last minute. It was really infiltrating his system now and the tips of his fingers were going numb against her skin. It would be easier this way.

“Nothing.” He lied, his broad hands stroking back down her body and gripping her hips bruisingly. He lifted her easily and she yelped happily as her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck and she kissed him with a groan.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down on top of the duvet. The fabric of her shirt _tore_ under his deft fingers only to be thrown to the ground. She whined as she quickly shed the rest of her clothes and Colin ripped his shirt open, the few buttons actually done up scattered across the duvet as he dumped the ruined fabric and shoved his jeans down just enough that his cock sprang free and then he was covering her body with his. They made love there and then. ‘Emma’s’ fingernails left bloody crescents in Colin’s shoulders and he groaned as his aggressive thrusts mellowed into something more careful, more deliberate, as he sank inside her willing body again and again, drawing desperate and needy whines from her lips.

Colin’s forehead creased as she came on his cock and he took the picture with his mind. He was grateful at the very least that he could give her one pleasant memory, that part of him wanted to save her.

“You feel so good, Col.” She babbled breathlessly, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. Colin’s hips stuttered and he stilled as he let his impending orgasm ebb away.

“So do you, Renfri.”

The room went quiet around them. The smell of sex was in the air but there was something else there, too, something palpable that seemed to thicken to the point of suffocation as they stared at each other.

Her eyes flicked across the room. Colin didn’t know what she was looking for and he didn’t care.

Her eyes met his again. He smirked.

She scrambled, his still-hard cock slipping from her with a slippery squelch, as she tried to get off of the bed, but his hand lashed out and gripped her wrist, rolling her back with ease. His eyes never moved; his expression never changed as she thrashed uselessly in his grip. She strained her thighs against him in an attempt to push him off and it trapped his cock against her wet cunt as she wriggled strongly and sparks of pleasure shot through him, heightened only by the violence of her thrashing. Her free hand _clawed_ at his face, leaving bloody tracks down his cheek and he damn-near _came_.

He laughed throatily as he dipped his head back, enjoying the high, the euphoria, the _pain_ , as she struggled. He didn’t know what type of training she had in terms of combat, and even if it was substantial, he’d had six years of active service with the Royal Marines and forty-seven confirmed kills to his name. He’d never cared to keep track of the unconfirmed ones, and could only imagine that had doubled since his dishonourable discharge. With the two of them alone and unarmed, the undisputed fact was that he was bigger and stronger than her and she didn’t stand a chance.

“Colin, let me go!” Renfri snarled, and it was like he was seeing her for the first time. Her eyes were ablaze with fury and her face was contorted with rage. She looked hardened, _weathered_ , and nothing like the sweet innocent that had caught his eye all that time ago. He let his tongue snake out to capture the droplets of blood dribbling down his face as he realised, emphatically, that none of it had been real.

“I can’t do that.”

She punched him hard across the face, bruising the slices down his cheek, and he laughed when he felt it rattle his cheekbone and his cock, soaked with her juices, throbbed between their legs. He’d never known his girl was such a fighter. He wiped his chapped nostrils almost _casually_ with his free hand before responding with a backhand of his own across her cheek. The slap of flesh on flesh echoed loudly in the bedroom and Renfri cried out and collapsed against the bed. She stopped struggling and when Colin pulled his hand back, his knuckles were red with her blood.

He released her limp wrist, and she covered her face with both hands, trembling hard as tears and blood spilled between her fingers.

He left her for a few moments, just staring at her with a cock of his head and wondering if he should kill himself instead, before his bloodied hands enclosed around her forearms and dragged her hands slowly away from her face. She wailed in a mixture of pain and fret as he re-positioned himself between her legs, massaging his cock pleasantly against her core for a few moments as he breathed shallowly. Dribbles of blood from the scratches on his face were beginning to descend down his neck and streak his solid abdomen and the fear was alight in Renfri’s wet eyes as she looked up at him, an open wound swelling on her cheek.

“Colin, please…” She begged.

He cocked his head to the side as he watched her, bleeding and shaking, and thought how this may have been the most beautiful he’d ever seen her.

He let his hand dip between his legs and allowed himself a few lazy pumps of his cock before he pressed inside her again and struck her cheek _again_ and she _screamed_ in agony and blood exploded like paint. She _clenched hard_ and Colin groaned as he came deep inside of her.

She tried to push herself up but Colin’s hand was already on her throat and pinning her to the bed as his hips stuttered and he enjoyed his orgasm. His cock twitched and throbbed before slipping from the ruined mess of her cunt and his hand tightened unthinkingly. By the time he’d caught his breath and looked at her again, he was gripping her oesophagus so tightly that the blood vessels in her eyes popped and red bled into her green irises as tears escaped them.

“Ger, guh…” Her words were muffled and choked as spittle gathered white in the corners of her mouth and her face turned red.

Renfri scraped her fingernails uselessly at his hand but his grip remained steadfast as his knuckles collided with her cheekbone and a bruise blossomed before his eyes. Why were humans so breakable?

She gurgled out a scream and Colin snarled, releasing her throat and _gripping_ her jaw. His eyes fluttered and his head span and his world lurched as he heard the _snap_ of bone and the noise she made was inhuman.

“Geralt, please.” The words were barely audible, but Colin heard them. “Geralt, help me, please.”

_Geralt_. That was Mikel’s real name, wasn’t it? Colin vaguely remembered the word skewering the mire of his mind when John had thundered into his bedroom the night before.

“He’s not coming for you.” Colin spat on her, watching the spittle intermingle with the blood on her cheek and she shivered. He gripped her throat again and shifted his body weight, crushing her bare chest with his own as he leant down and brought their faces together until their noses were brushing. Her eyes were hazy with fear and Colin’s heart rate sped up under a mixture of coke and adrenalin and misery.

“Do you love him?” He whispered against her lips. “Were you _fucking_ him the whole time you were _fucking_ me?” He spat on her again, digging his nails into her neck until blood poured. “Fucking whore. John was right about you.”

Colin reared back up and pulled her with him, his hands tightening around her throat and her back twisted and bowed against the bed until her ribs shook and snapped under the effort. She winced, but she was already in so much pain and so oxygen-starved that all she could do was mewl. He growled as his hands struggled to keep purchase around her neck with all the blood, and when he finally found it, he squeezed hard. His large hands dwarfed her slender neck, and he felt the crunch of bone and cartilage under his fingers.

In the heat of the moment, in the drug-addled frenzy of his mind, the barest brush of her bloody fingertips over his tricep caught his attention as she used the last of her strength to reach out for him.

“ _Please_.” It was quiet, but it stabbed his heart like an icicle and froze the blood in his veins solid, he felt _heavy_ as he stared at her uncomprehendingly. His cock went limp, but his grip didn’t loosen as her eyes clouded over and her body went lax beneath him.

He released her neck with a sickening _crunch,_ and it was only then that he realised he was trembling violently.

Colin’s mind was surprisingly numb as he rolled off of Renfri’s body and curled in on himself, sobbing into his bloody hands.

After a while, he raised his head from the cocoon of his arms and peered at her. She wasn’t moving. His hand slowly reached out and he brushed his fingers over her bare hip.

At least she couldn’t leave him now.

…

Colin didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d killed her. He could barely see a foot in front of himself as it was. Everything was just blurry images, bright lights and nauseating movement from a mixture of booze and coke. He was pretty sure someone had given him ecstasy as well, but he’d been too busy lapping body shots from some stripper’s stomach to really remember.

All he knew was that the party was in full swing. There were people everywhere, naked men and women dancing with him and kissing him. He laughed every time he felt hands pawing at his zip. That was why he didn’t question the arms around his shoulders, he giggled as he let his hand settle in the hair of whoever was on their knees in the crowded room and bobbing their head up and down on his cock. But then his cock was cold as the arms around his shoulders yanked him back and dragged him from the room and into the hallway.

“Hey, what the hell…” He slurred.

“Your brother wants you.”

The man manhandling Colin came into focus and he rolled his eyes as his brother’s uppity accountant glared at him and Colin turned away.

“Fuck off, Karraway.” He sounded tired as he tucked himself back into his jeans the best he could. “Come have a drink, you might get laid for once.”

Jack Karraway said nothing as he opened the door to John’s bedroom and shoved Colin inside. Colin turned on his heel, resting his arms on the doorframe and leaning forward, towering over Jack with a manic look in his eye and three healing scratch marks skewering his cheek. He looked like a wild man.

“Touch me again,” he growled, “and I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

Karraway jolted back like he’d been electrified, and Colin laughed.

A hand curled around Colin’s bicep and he turned to the room. John was at his arm and two of John’s heavies were bending his white-haired bodyguard over his desk while he snarled and struggled against them. Every forceful jolt was more aggressive than the last and the goons struggled to keep their hold.

“Looks like you’re struggling, lads.” Colin laughed. “He’s going to get free and snap your necks by the looks of it.”

“Not if you finish him off.” John muttered darkly, pressing something cold and metal in Colin’s hands while he kept his grip firm around his arm.

Colin’s head span and his chest exploded in a mixture of confused anxiety as he looked down at the saw in his hands. It shoved it back against John’s chest, but John didn’t catch it and it clattered loudly to the ground between them.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” He hissed. “I already killed her.” His words were screamed, not spoken, and something wet was running down his face. A growl and the snap of wood as one of John’s desk legs buckled under Geralt’s weight filled the room and the brothers looked over instinctively.

John grunted and shoved Colin back. Colin’s solid form was immoveable, but the rejection was implicit as he bent down and came back up with the saw.

“Fine, I’ll finish him off myself.”

Colin stayed stock-still as he watched John split Geralt’s back open with the saw. He listened to his blood-curdling screams and watched the rivers of blood flow down his legs and onto the floor.

The movement at the dark window was the only thing Colin saw and he sobered reactively as his hand curled around John’s collar and yanked him away from Geralt as the bullet sped past them and imbedded into the wall behind them.

The saw clattered to the ground and splattered their boots with blood as glass shattered and one of the heavies collapsed to the ground with a bullet between his eyes. Half a dozen black-clad men streamed in through the broken window and gathered around Geralt and Colin cursed loudly as he dragged John towards the door.

He felt the bullet embed itself in the meat of his arm and he _howled_ in pain but didn’t look back as John seemed to finally snap out of his shock and wrench the bedroom door open and dart out. A gun pressed against Colin’s neck from behind and it was a mixture of madness and misery that sent his elbow back, purifying the extraction agent’s nose to a bloody paste as the pistol clattered to the floor. He reached for his own _Desert Eagle_ and growled when it wasn’t there, instead ducking and turning with the MI6 issue pistol and putting a bullet between the eyes of his shooter. Behind him, agents were easing Geralt from the desk and turning for Colin and he shot one in the head, another in the shoulder before darting out of the bedroom and sprinting down the corridor. He found John wheezing by the front door and yanked him along by his wrist, the bullet in his own arm sending spirals of pain through him that only served to piss him off.

“Give me your fucking keys.” He snarled, dragging his brother along to the garage, giving no mind to the crew or the party attendee’s upstairs.

John’s trembling hands pressed a set of keys into his waiting palm and Colin clicked the _lock_ button, praying it was for something fast, and was pleasantly surprised when a matte black _Audi R8_ flashed its headlights at him.

He threw John towards the passenger’s side as pain exploded through him and anger seared his vision and a lump formed in his trousers. John was babbling uselessly about MI6 and how _everything is fucked, Col_ , but Colin was too keyed up to listen as he started the engine. With how off his face he was right now, he was more than likely to crash the car and kill them both, but the only other alternative was to stay and be killed by MI6.

He gripped the steering wheel, growling as his injured arm complained at him, and reversed blinding, smacking into something solid and jolting them both before flooring it out of the garage and down the dirt road out of the villa, reaching 100mph in a matter of seconds.

“Was he dead?” John asked, gripping the seats and trying to look out of the rear-view window, an action that was pointless in the pitch black of night.

“Who?” Colin asked, irritated.

“ _Fucking Rivia_.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Colin spat. “I’m trying to keep your sorry ass alive!”

John started to yell again but Colin had already zoned out, looking blankly at the road ahead as he drove on autopilot.

He was drunk, high, grieving, in pain and _so fucking tired_ and the mercy of that was that the weight of fact that MI6 had just taken everything from them was kept from him, somehow.

Part of him knew that it would be all too easy to crash the car and end it for both of them, but he didn’t, he just kept on driving.

…

**_Present Day_ **

Geralt didn’t realise he was gripping the table until the officer next to him cleared his throat. He released his hands and stared down at them and the deep dents the table edge had left in his palms.

Colin was still looking at him, and his mad eyes were alive with something that Geralt hadn’t seen before and it made him sick to his stomach.

Geralt had done this job for a long time, but it was only now that he was realising that he’d never met a real monster before. Until now. Colin wasn’t the Ronnie to John’s Reggie; he was the creature to John’s Frankenstein. One of them a real monster, the other a creature born of misery and pain and blood and with no right nor place in the world.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance.” Geralt seethed.

Colin didn’t react, instead he just leant back and carried on talking.

“They took her body and buried it in the quarry.” He said simply, folding his arms again as if guarding himself somehow. “Far enough from the villa that your goons would overlook it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Geralt asked. It was a hostile question, but it was genuine.

“It’s not for you.” Was all Colin returned, he was no longer looking at him.

“We’re done here.” Geralt stood and walked out, barely giving Colin Devenere, nor the armed guards, a look as left.

…

A week later and Geralt stood at the foot of a filled grave.

He swallowed, feeling overcrowded among the tombstones in the empty graveyard as he looked down at the freshly dug earth and the sparkling black headstone.

He’d waited for this moment, maybe unconsciously so, for a long time. He wanted her home and safe, so he could tell her so many selfish, selfish things, and now that he could, he found he had no idea what to say.

One hand was in his pocket, balled into a fist, and the other was clutching a single red carnation. She always looked so pretty in red. His head was so low that his chin brushed against his shirt and his lips tremored as he tried to speak. He tried to imagine everything he’d say to her if she were in front of him and every apology he’d make.

The anxiety and the defeat sat in his stomach like a rock and it was like his body was getting smaller and smaller around that rock with each inward breath.

“I failed you.” He finally settled on as a tear streaked down his cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to try not to fail again.”

Geralt knelt, the fresh dirt clumping on the knee of his black suit and placed the flower by her name.

“Bye, Ren.” he tried to smile. “I’ll come talk to you again sometime, if that’s okay.”

He swallowed and shook his head at himself before pushing up and walking away. It felt like he’d left some part of himself with her in that grave and each step away made him feel lighter with the loss of himself.

The shining black _Alfa_ glinted under the sunlight and he coughed to clear his throat before his gloved hand was on the handle and the door opened with a muted _clunk_.

He slid into the driver’s seat with a sigh and let his head tip back against the headrest.

A hand eased over his muddy knee.

“You okay?”

Geralt looked over to see Jaskier angled towards him in the passenger’s seat. His hair was falling into his eyes and his smile was small, but it was sincere and Geralt let himself _deflate_ just looking at him.

Geralt leant across the gearstick and kissed him. Jaskier’s hand came to settle on his jaw as he enjoyed the gentle press of his boyfriend’s warm lips on his own. When Geralt pulled back, Jaskier didn’t take his hand away, instead he ran his thumb soothingly over the stubble on Geralt’s chin.

“Yeah.” Geralt replied, and for the first time in months, he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Credit to Hanna and Alex for Geralt and Renfri's code names <3


End file.
